


Wishful Thinking

by fairmanor



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Blow Jobs, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Magical Realism, Multi, News Media AU, News Reporter Patrick, POV Patrick Brewer, Patrick Wearing Eyeliner, Politician David Rose, Politics AU, Praise Kink, Recreational Drug Use, Slow Burn, mind-reading
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:01:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 44,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25860982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairmanor/pseuds/fairmanor
Summary: Patrick takes a deep breath.Okay, back up. Focus. You have a segment with David Rose in a few days. As in, the David Rose.And you can hear every single one of his thoughts.*Patrick Brewer, a wannabe local reporter for Elmdale County News, feels like his life is going nowhere. That is, until a ⚡️shocking⚡️ turn of events changes his career forever…
Relationships: Johnny Rose/Moira Rose, Patrick Brewer/David Rose, Stevie Budd/Twyla Sands, Theodore "Ted" Mullens/Alexis Rose
Comments: 117
Kudos: 219





	1. I Can Only Imagine

**Author's Note:**

> \- This fic is inspired by a video game! It's been very fun to write so far. I really hope you enjoy :) 
> 
> \- Also, I feel like I should clarify that Elmdale is in fact a small city in this fic. The other towns, like Schitt's Creek, still surround it.

“Patrick. Patrick, get up.”

“What’s wrong with it? Is it dead?”

“Moira, I don’t think HR would agree with you referring to our adult employees as ‘it’.”

“Well, whatever shall I do instead? We’re live in T-minus five minutes!”

“Give him a shake.”

“Patrick!”

“Woah!”

In a start, Patrick wakes. He shields his eyes from the hot studio lights glaring into his face from above, then a moment later he has no need.

Moira Rose, Elmdale County News’ head reporter, is towering over him, the huge, pointed shoulders of her black dress blocking out the glaring light. Only the rarest exasperation, the one that she seems to reserve for Patrick, is etched deep into her face.

“Please _move,_ child! The news starts at nine in the morning every day, and if you insist on suffering from some maladious chronic fatigue, then _I_ insist you do it on someone else’s time!”

Patrick grunts, finally pushing himself up onto his elbows. He looks around. Cameramen and interns and technicians alike have their eyes trained on him, and he burns with embarrassment. It’s far from the first time he’s fallen asleep in the middle of the studio.

“Moira, I’m sorry, I was just – I got here early, I wanted to help out with…stuff…sorry, I’ll go.”

“Retire the explanation for another day,” Moira snaps.

“Um, hey, can you please stop bullying the staff and get in place?”

Having wobbled to his feet and brushed himself off, Patrick turns around to see Alexis, the studio manager, glancing down at a clipboard. She hooks a finger behind a lock of golden hair and flips it over her shoulder. “We’re filming in five.”

“I know, sweet Alexis, that was why I was trying to get him to move!”

“Well, the set is behind us, so I actually think _you’re_ the one who needs to move, Mother,” Alexis says.

Moira gives Patrick another once-over without acknowledging her mistake, then stalks back to where she came from.

Patrick throws Alexis what he hopes is a grateful smile, but given the red mark pressed into his face from his awkward sleeping position and the hair plastered to his forehead, he probably just looks a little punch-drunk.

“Hey, um…thanks for stepping in.”

Alexis purses her lips and blinks at Patrick, like he’s cute or something. “You’re fine. Between you and me, my mom just likes picking fights. Don’t let her get to you. Now if you’ll excuse me, I should probably go and make sure the air around her is at the correct concentration for optimum speech delivery or something.”

Alexis flounces away, leaving Patrick stood on the steps, bristling with the familiar twin sensations of irritation and humiliation that come free with every Rose family interaction. Moira had actually called him _child,_ like a medieval countess talking to her way-too-young-to-be-married daughter-in-law.

Patrick sheepishly wanders back to the writer’s desks, digging a caffeine pill out of his pocket and popping one out the blister pack. He fills a cup of water from the cooler and swallows it down, trying to pretend to himself that he’d just got here like everyone else and not tried too hard to make an impression early in the morning by coming here to set up…what was he even trying to do? Honestly, he had no idea. But he came into work this morning with two goals, and the first was a disaster. Patrick drains his water and looks up at the second mezzanine floor of the news building, where all the offices are. Time for the second goal.

“Oh my God, you were just talking to _Alexis Rose!”_

Patrick startles. Behind him, Twyla Sands is standing in line, a closed laptop wedged under her arm.

“Well, kind of,” he shrugs. “She was getting Moira ready for her broadcast.”

Judging by the familiar shrill start to the day that was ringing through the studio (“Wilkommen, bienvenue and welcome, exalted citizens of northeast On-ta-ri-o!”), Alexis seemed to have done her job.

Without looking up from her document, Stevie snorts as she taps away at the screen. “Patrick, come on. Half the office has a crush on her, and she just paid actual attention to you for, like, a full five seconds. You can piss yourself if you want.”

“I mean – we barely even talked! It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Uh, it _is!”_ Stevie says. “I’ve worked here for three years and she’s never talked to me, let alone stood up for me in front of her own mother!”

“I heard she backpacks across Europe once a year. Or was it that she’s _in_ other people’s backpacks? Who knows. And she cooks!” Twyla adds.

“I’ve seen her reading _for pleasure_ in the park outside the studio.”

Patrick looks over at Alexis, only a bobbing golden head from this distance. She’s teetering up onto her obscenely high, purple crocodile print heels to observe the broadcast. He admires her, but he’s never felt that particular _buzz_ that every other female-attracted person in the office seems to note after she graces them all with her presence.

“Well, I think the office would probably be about forty percent more productive if people weren’t fangirling over her all the time,” Patrick says. It’s not like he’s calculated it, or anything. He definitely doesn’t have a spreadsheet of suggested improvements for Rose Media stowed away on his laptop.

Okay, a folder of spreadsheets.

“Anyway, I have bigger things to think about today,” Patrick continues, eager to change the subject. “I’m going to ask Ronnie for a promotion as reporter.”

Twyla gasps in delight. Stevie splutters on her coffee, and Patrick pretends it’s out of the same happy shock than the shit-eating laughter he knows it to be.

“I’m so happy for you! You’ve been talking about this for years!” Twyla says.

“Exactly. Why put it off any longer? This is me taking _initiative,”_ Patrick says, glaring hard at Stevie in reference to a conversation of theirs a couple weeks back. She may or may not have given him the kick up the ass that inspired him to embark on several backfiring mornings making random reporter’s coffees and sorting out their prompts on the table.

Even if Stevie was going more along the lines of “quit your job and become an Alaskan hermit, Patrick,” he didn’t want to leave Rose Media. As much as Moira made him want to tear his hair out sometimes, and despite the fact that sitting in front of his boss, _Ronnie Lee,_ and asking for a promotion made him want to throw up, he’d been sailing through the past few weeks with an unshakeable feeling that things were finally starting to go his way.

“Well, good luck,” Stevie says. “As your friend, know that my tissue box will be your territory afterwards. You know, when Ronnie stamps on your dreams and cites your lack of experience and leaves you feeling hopeless and doomed –”

“Yes _thanks_ , Stevie.”

Patrick sighs, smooths the sleeves of his grey suit – still crinkled from his impromptu nap – and heads towards the elevator.

When he reaches Ronnie’s office, he steels himself and saunters in without knocking. She looks up, her face twisted in confusion and disdain.

“Uh, what the hell is this? I told Mutt I’m not taking meetings this morning.”

“Patrick Brewer, writing staff,” he says, sticking out a hand. Ronnie doesn’t take it.

“I know who you are.”

“Listen, Ms. Lee, I’ll get straight to it. I want to be a reporter.”

Ronnie stares at him in stunned silence for a moment before she breaks into loud, caustic laughter, banging her fist against the desk. Patrick watches her cackle and try to compose herself, feeling like someone has taken a pin to each of his organs. You know, if organs could deflate slowly.

“You – you wanna be a newsreader? You’re killing me here, kid.”

“It’s not a joke! I’ve worked here for over two years, and I think I’m more than –”

Ronnie cuts him off with another wheeze. Patrick crosses his arms.

“I’m serious. I’m here to ask for a promotion,” he says firmly.

Ronnie leans back, wiping a tear from her eye.

“Okay, okay, I’ll hear you out. But whew, thanks for that. I haven’t laughed that hard since my ex-wife tried to sue me for custody of our cat. So what makes you think you’re cut out to be a reporter for Elmdale County News?”

“I’m passionate. Being a reporter has been my dream for nearly my whole life, and…”

Ronnie waves him away with a hand. “Yeah, cool, great. Lots of people want to do lots of things, but that doesn’t mean they’re good at them. It’s not about whether you want the job, it’s about if you can actually do it. I want you to prove you have what it takes. Interview me.”

“Interview…you?”

Ronnie nods. “Yup.”

“But what am I even interviewing you about?”

“Figure it out, Katie Couric.”

“Okay, um…”

Patrick stalls. He feels hot under the collar. He looks at the clock. Is it only half past nine? How is it only half past nine? This is already the longest day of his life.

“Kid, if you’re not gonna give me anything, you might as well –”

“Who got the cat, in the end?”

Ronnie blinks. “What?”

“In your court case. With your ex-wife. Who got the cat?”

For a split second, Ronnie actually looks taken aback. “Oh. I did,” she says triumphantly. “I’d say it was a good deal, since I was the one cleaning up after it for ten years.”

“You mention things like that often, or so I’ve heard. About being the only one around here who does anything. Do you feel like the responsibilities in your personal life translate into your work often, or do you like to keep things separate?”

Ronnie raises a pen to her mouth, smiling. “So you do pay attention. Nice segue there, too. Kid, I’ll tell you what.” She leans forward again, tapping a hand down onto the table. “You bring that same finesse to the next _ten_ stories you produce and put a copy of each one on my desk, and maybe then I’ll consider your offer.”

Patrick feels his organs reflate, but only a little. Ten stories is, what, three weeks? A month? Patrick thinks about it. He can surely hold on until then without emigrating to Australia or running off with the circus.

He stands up, offering her another handshake. Nope, still not quite at handshake level.

“One word of advice – your eye contact is sloppy,” Ronnie says. “You need to be in control. You need to _get inside their head.”_

Patrick nods. “Noted. Thanks, Ms. Lee.”

She grunts in response. Just before Patrick opens the door to leave, something like a small electric shock pings him. Ronnie’s voice stops him again, but she sounds…different.

_(…needs to stop trying so hard if he wants to…)_

“What did you just say?” Patrick says suddenly.

Ronnie stares at him blankly. “About getting inside their head? You heard me.”

“No, after that – no, never mind. I’m hearing things.”

“Close the door properly on your way out, Brewer.”

Patrick does so, not wanting to risk another moment on Ronnie’s bad side now that he’s fairly certain he just nudged his way into the ‘meh’ section for the first time in his life. He hurries down the hall, ready to sink his teeth back into the stack of report prompts on his desk, when he runs into a tall, blond figure at the end of it.

“Patrick!” Ted says, opening his arms wide. “Good to see you! You’re looking unusually happy.”

Was that a compliment? Patrick couldn’t tell.

They step into the elevator together.

“Well, for the first time ever, I _didn’t_ make an idiot of myself in front of one of the most important women in the company,” Patrick says. “Of course, that doesn’t mean to say I didn’t do so in front of _the_ most important woman in the company half an hour ago.”

Ted winces. “Oh, did you fall asleep again? I told you, there’s no need to try so hard on a morning! I don’t care what people say, I still swear by a glass of milk and ten hours of sleep every single night.”

Patrick smiles. He wasn’t sure how it was possible, that he and Ted had the exact same job yet Ted seemed so much happier with his life. He was the goofy brains behind all the best news story taglines. He was running a few by Patrick now, brandishing a load of cue cards and scraps of paper.

“So, you know that story that came out the other day about the man who tried to break into NASA, claiming that the government was hiding information about how the moon was made of cheese? How about – how about _Close Encounters of the Curd Kind?”_

“Puns and movie references? You’re a man after many hearts, Ted.”

It isn’t the first time Patrick wishes he knew what Ted was thinking, maybe so he could nab a few ideas for himself. Patrick tugs at his cufflinks, and another electric shock pings through him.

_(…wonder what kind of movies Alexis…)_

“Huh? What about Alexis?”

Ted stares at him. “What?”

“You said something about – never mind.”

Ted narrows his eyes. “Huh. Uh, um…speaking of the Roses, did you hear that David Rose has stepped in to run against Sebastien Raine as governor?”

Ted shudders, and Patrick isn’t entirely sure who he’s shuddering at. In all his time in Elmdale County, he was never one to keep up with the local politics – or, for that matter, the Roses, who seem to have an overwhelming monopoly over the area’s dealings. The story of their son David breaking away from the Rose Media empire to pursue politics was one of the first that Patrick ever got to edit.

“And…that’s a good…? A bad thing? Sorry, I’m not sure.”

“I’d say it’s a very _good_ thing. Sebastien’s definitely going to win now!”

So Sebastien is the goodie here, apparently. Patrick starts to try and keep up.

“Yeah, David Rose and politics are about as compatible as chalk and cheese, or so they say,” Ted continues. The lift dings and the doors creak open. “I guess you could say he never really… _rose_ to the occasion.”

Patrick chuckles weakly. “Heh. You should put that one in your next title, Ted.”

“Oh, no need, I already have one!” Ted calls, hopping out of the elevator and jogging his way down the hall. _“Alien vs. Senator!”_

The lift closes again, and the sunlight flooding from the windows on the second floor is shut out with it. Patrick stares into the dingy elevator bulbs and sighs. He’s never met David Rose, but Patrick can relate to him already. He’s not cut out for this.

****

After three limp hours procrastinating on his next report, Patrick decides to stretch his legs and get away from his desk for lunch. Elmdale County’s news station is situated in the center of the smattering of local towns, the largest of which being Elmdale itself. Some claim it’s big enough to be a city, but in Patrick’s eyes he’s content enough to keep it humble. He sets off in a meditative pace towards the nearest Subway, walking more slowly past the park and the fountain. Just like every lunchtime, he digs a coin from his pocket and flicks it into the fountain, watching it plop and drift to the bottom with every other stunted wish. And, just like every lunchtime, he wonders the collective net worth of every fountain around the world and whether it would be worth it to try and scoop out every coin. He’ll work it out one day.

As usual, the spotty, pale-haired server at Subway doesn’t heat up his sandwich as requested, so Patrick uses the second half of his lunch break to dash by his apartment and heat it up. He enters his apartment to find his roommate, Ray, sitting on the couch reading a book.

“Patrick! How did it go? Am I looking at Elmdale County’s newest reporter?”

He sinks into the couch beside Ray, whose smile drops when he sees Patrick’s expression.

“Unfortunately, Ronnie isn’t gonna let me get away that easily. I have to impress her across the board with _ten_ different stories before she’ll even consider it.”

Ray tuts sympathetically.

“No one there thinks I have what it takes! No matter what I do, I’m just gonna get shut down at every turn.”

Ray sets down his book and turns towards Patrick, a curiously cheerful look once again plastered on his face as though he’d come to some revelation about Patrick’s career that he was desperate to share.

“Patrick, just because you’re struggling doesn’t mean you’re not still capable! Maybe news reporting just isn’t the right place for you.”

“Uh…I’m pretty sure this is the part where you tell me not to give up, Ray.”

Ray chuckles like the idea is ridiculous. “Believe me, I know how it feels to try and move ahead with your career but just end up banging your head against a wall day in, day out! Quite literally, in my case. It turns out tool-free handyman services aren’t as fun to execute as they sound.”

Patrick sits back and sighs, wishing – not for the first time – that his parents were here with him. They started making recordings of every story Patrick wrote for the county news, listening to his words even if he wasn’t the one speaking them. He would kill for that kind of appreciation round here.

The fact that his sandwich comes out the microwave soggy is the last straw. At this rate, he wouldn’t be surprised if he walked outside to find a raincloud permanently stuck over his head.

He manages to make it all the way back to the studio parking lot before the wet sandwich becomes the _second_ to last straw.

“A raincloud. A literal raincloud. Are you kidding me?”

Patrick watches the sky darken as he rounds the final corner to the news station, a tight knot of dread forming in his stomach. More and more black clouds gather overhead, and raindrops start to patter against his face. Even the grain of hope he was left with after the meeting with Ronnie melts away at the sight of the office doors.

He crumples the sandwich wrapper in his hand, resigning himself to the pathetic fallacy of it all. In the same way he ends up sitting down in the shower every other night, maybe Patrick _needed_ a little time to stand in the rain. And, you know, maybe mull over all the reasons why he doesn’t have what it takes to be a reporter.

A frigid wind whips around him as the raindrops start to fall thicker and faster. Maybe he’ll throw in some thoughts about being so far away from home, and Ray straight-up telling him to give up his career. Or how he can’t even talk work with Ted without being reminded how much better everyone is at Patrick’s job than he is.

Thunder rumbles overhead, bright flickers dancing across the dark sky. It makes Patrick want to growl and shout along with it.

“I just wish I knew what people wanted from me!”

_BOOM._

Out of nowhere, Patrick finds himself blinded by a white-hot flash. A current surges through his body, the intense light and heat ripping through him in ways humans probably aren’t meant to withstand, and the last thought he has is about average human body temperatures before the world goes black.

****

Patrick is floating dreamily through darkness, unaware of how much time is passing. A dull ache throbs inside his skull.

Finally, he drifts towards consciousness, slowly opening his eyes to a bright, white light…

_What is that?_

_Am I still inside it?_

_Is it still happening?_

“Oh good, you’re awake.”

When Patrick’s sore eyes adjust to the light, he realizes he’s in a hospital bed. A woman in a white coat is scribbling on a clipboard. Patrick hears the sound as though it’s a millimeter away from his ear and not five feet.

“How are you feeling?” she says.

As soon as the initial confusion passes, so does the pain. Patrick stretches his head, his fingers, his toes, half expecting to find a charred stump where half of him should lay, but everything feels normal.

“I…I feel…fine, I guess. Just a bit of a headache. What happened?”

“To be honest, Mr. Brewer, the fact that you’re sitting here talking to me is nothing short of a miracle. You were struck dead-on by a bolt of lightning this afternoon. The ground was singed around you for ten square feet. By all accounts, you should probably be dead.”

“Wait – what? Then how did I survive?”

The doctor shrugs. “Your guess is as good as mine. But your vitals are all fine, there’s no burning or scarring, and as far as we can see there’s no lasting damage.”

_(Other than your bank account. Let’s see if that shitty insurance of yours will cover the ambulance ride.)_

Patrick stares at the doctor. He could have sworn he just heard her speak, but her lips weren’t moving.

“Uh…yeah. Work hasn’t been great recently and I’m kind of broke right now. Thanks for the reminder,” he responds.

The doctor looks like a deer caught in the headlights.

“What…? How did you – maybe we should run a few more tests.”

“But you just said everything is okay!”

“It might be good to do a CAT scan and check your brain isn’t showing any signs of trauma.”

She scans her clipboard and arches an eyebrow.

_(Dear God, is that his deductible?)_

Patrick stares in silence until she looks up searchingly.

“You know what? I feel fine,” he says, feeling absolutely not fine at all. No outside booboos today, but still plenty of inside ones. “I’ll just…leave? Can I do that?”

“Sure, we have no reason to keep you. But I want you to check in with general every couple of days for the next two weeks and call us straight away if you have any lingering symptoms.”

_(And maybe look into a new insurance plan while you’re at it.)_

The doctor strides out the door, leaving Patrick in absolute shock for a moment. What the hell _was_ that? As he sits for a few seconds longer, mulling over the snarky voice he’d heard that sounded just like the doctor’s, Patrick’s ears tune into what sounds like TV static, breezing and rushing round him in a loop, sometimes intensifying with the steps outside the hospital ward’s door, sometimes _almost_ sounding like words but never quite getting there.

He lowers two unsteady feet to the ground and regains his balance for a moment before picking up his coat that someone slung over the nearest chair and walking slowly towards the exit.

In the waiting room on the way out, nurses, doctors, patients and visitors mill around, and the static gets louder than ever. Suddenly, a nurse bumps into Patrick as she rushes by.

“Oh, _sorry,_ sweetie!” she says with a bright, apologetic smile. “I almost bruised that handsome face of yours there.”

Patrick lets her by, but not before something just like her voice causes him to stop in his tracks.

_(Should watch where he’s going. Dude looks like a thumb, as well.)_

“Hey! That’s not –”

But the nurse has already disappeared around the corner. Patrick turns back to the waiting area, where a couple of people sit in chairs. Though no one seems to be saying anything, he can hear crystal clear voices spinning around the room:

_(That’s the last time I wear a rubber dress to cut electrical wires.)_

_(I_ told _Roland he wouldn’t be able to handle that extra spicy pad thai. He’d better pay to clean my car.)_

_(Ha, that dude looks like a thumb.)_

Patrick cuts his way through the waiting room to sit down away from everyone, rubbing his temples. His head is pounding, but this time it’s from the sheer weight of everyone’s inner voices. Which he can hear.

That thought alone is just starting to sink in.

_Oh, fuck. You can hear people’s thoughts._

_You can hear every single one of their thoughts._


	2. On My Mind

Patrick isn’t sure how long he sits in the waiting room trying to process his emotions, but by the time he brings his attention back to the hospital the waiting room has cleared out and he’s presented with a whole new troupe of people, complete with a whole new set of thoughts that Patrick can’t help feel bad for knowing. It feels so _wrong,_ seeing people in this way, knowing what they had for breakfast or what their aunt is doing tomorrow before he even knows their name.

_(Ugh…I knew that Buzz Lightyear doll wouldn’t fit up there…)_

Patrick finds himself stifling laughter at some of the more embarrassing reasons for why the various residents of Elmdale County have found themselves in the hospital today, but some of them really drive home the panic that surfaces above everything else, the one that reminds him that this isn’t at all normal.

_(They’ve been in there for hours. What’s going on?)_

_(How am I gonna tell Mom about this?)_

_(I just hope he’s okay…)_

So distracted by the constant TV static in his head, it takes Patrick a while to realize that the real TV is on in the waiting room, too. It’s half-time on some soccer game, and the pundits are sat discussing the match so far. Patrick stares hard at their heads, wondering just how far this strange power actually reaches.

Nope, no luck there. Patrick’s relieved. Watching movies would have been a chore, trying to concentrate on the story and hearing nothing but the actor silently complaining about when they were getting their lunch break.

“Patrick!”

Patrick whirls around to see Alexis striding towards him, a bouquet of flowers in hand.

 _“Alexis?_ What are you doing here?”

Patrick shakes his head and blinks a few times. Maybe he’s started seeing things as well. That would be the only explanation for Alexis Rose being here, with actual flowers in hand. He’s glad it wasn’t Stevie or Twyla in his position, because he’s pretty sure it would’ve finished them off.

“These are on behalf of the studio,” Alexis says, her voice lower and more genuine than the bouncy trill she’d adopted for her twice-daily pep talks. “We saw the ambulance pull up and the day kind of stopped. Then we guessed someone should come and, I don’t know, check up on you or something.”

Patrick takes the flowers. The part of him still freaking the fuck out is glad they’re dead – and, for that matter, glad that plants don’t think at all. He’d have to throw out his succulents.

_(I hope that sounds convincing…he’d probably find it weird if he knew I just came on my own.)_

Okay, whatever momentary warmth Patrick was feeling for the office-wide sentiment is gone. But still…the hell? What on earth could have possessed _Alexis Rose_ to come and check up on him, unbidden by Rose Media’s instruction? He feels a little spark of gratitude, hoping that he might actually get to become decent friends with his manager one day. Patrick had always thought that people tended to overlook her sharp intellect and drive in favor of fawning over her gorgeous hair and stunning smile – and, make no mistake, Alexis _is_ stunning, but Patrick simply can’t muster up anything more than surface-level appreciation for it.

Patrick stands for a second, half-listening to Alexis’ stream of thoughts about how one of her friends was in the same situation in the Bahamas in 2006, when a thought almost as powerful as the lightning strikes him. If what he’s hearing is real, then he’ll be able to tell exactly what people think about him… _all the time._

Oh God, he won’t have to guess whether someone likes him or not. He’ll just _know._ No more trying to get into anyone’s good graces at work. No more awkward dodging around his boss. The thought is as exhilarating as it is terrifying.

Alexis clears her throat, and Patrick realizes he’s just been standing there in silence.

“Oh! Um. Thanks so much. To the…to the studio, I mean. And you. You and the studio.”

“So, how are you holding up? You know, my friend Liesha was in the exact same situation in the Bahamas in 2006. We had to dock the cruise three days early and take her to the hospital. Her back was, like, super effed.”

For a moment Patrick swears Alexis just said the same thing twice, then he remembers. This is gonna take some getting used to. And, since most people tend to rehearse sentences in their heads, it’s probably gonna get real boring real soon.

“I’m okay. A little fried, but that comes with the territory, I guess.”

“Good! You know, I always said it takes a few near-death experiences to shake you out of your rut,” Alexis says, taking his arm as she leads them both out the hospital.

“Rut? What do you mean, rut?”

“Oh, you know. You always trudge around the office like you’ve got little weights on your shoulders,” Alexis says. Patrick makes a mental note to brag to Stevie and Twyla that Alexis not only knows him by name, but has actually paid attention to him.

“I mean…yeah. You’re not wrong. It’s kinda hitting me that I could’ve died today.”

And, oh fuck. It’s really kinda hitting Patrick that he could’ve died today.

“I feel like this is gonna put some things into perspective.” _Yup…more than Alexis will ever know._ “There’s still so much I want to do with my life. I would’ve never got the chance to be a reporter.”

“You know what? I definitely think you have it in you,” Alexis says, reminding Patrick of the way a teacher would placate their underachieving student. “Beneath all that gloom, there’s a charming little button of a man just waiting to burst out onto our screens at 9 AM.”

“Uh…thanks?”

“You’re welcome,” Alexis says cheerfully. “Sounds like you have a lot to look forward to.”

_(God knows there’s still plenty I want to achieve.)_

And then, Patrick thinks he realizes what the hardest part of all might be: biting his tongue. He accepts Alexis’ offer of a ride home and sits quietly on the way, trying not to think about the people on the street and all the intimate realities he would have unsolicited access to if he were on the pavement right now. What if someone just happened to ask a mental question that he had the perfect answer to? What if someone really, _really_ wanted to ask him on a date? The possibilities were endless. Literally endless, because there were seven billion people on this planet and now Patrick Brewer knew all of them.

“This is me,” he says when Alexis pulls up outside his apartment, trying to bite back overwhelmed tears at the whole situation. He thanks her for the flowers once more and heads inside, thankful that Ray is just making his way out the door to spend a week with his family out west. He forces his way through a FaceTime call with his parents to let them know what happened, then slaps his noise-cancelling headphones over his ears and plays loud music until he falls asleep.

****

After a night of surprisingly good sleep, Patrick enters the office a little after nine, setting his bag down on his desk. Twyla and Stevie hurry over to him in a flurry of relieved smiles and astonished questions.

“Hey, you’re back already? We thought you’d take the rest of the week off?” Stevie says.

“Well, I was feeling fine, so I figured I’d just come in,” Patrick says.

 _(I would’ve milked it for all it was worth. Or at least tried to sue the company for damages,)_ Steve thinks.

“You know that you don’t have to be here, right? You can go home if you want to,” Twyla says.

_(Well, Ronnie might replace him if he leaves, like when my stepbrother got laid off at work because they just hadn’t noticed him in two years. But I don’t want to stress him out more.)_

“Replace me? Why would –” Patrick cuts himself off. Twyla looks confused. “I – that was weird, that thought came out wrong. I was trying to say, I’m worried Ronnie will replace me if I leave.”

“I was just thinking the same thing!” Twyla says. “We’re gonna do everything we can to keep you here, right Stevie?” She links an arm with Stevie’s, who reddens immediately.

“Uh…yeah. Right.”

“What do you need? Water? Soft food? A pillow?”

Patrick smiles at his two friends as he sits down at his desk. “I could use a donut,” he says, winking at them both.

Stevie swats Twyla’s arm. “You heard the sick man, Twyla, go get him a donut.”

“Why me?”

“Because I have to finish a rundown for Ronnie this morning or she’ll kill me.”

_(And you look cute when you’re hurrying around.)_

Wow, okay. He probably shouldn’t have heard that one.

_(Does Stevie want a donut as well? Ask her if she wants one. Do it. Three, two, one –)_

Twyla doesn’t do it. Outwardly, his friends don’t _change,_ but…did they always look at each other like that? Did Stevie always look like she wants to kick herself when Twyla walks away?

Patrick sits down at his desk and starts to make notes next to the prompts on the table. As usual, they suck. Some people in this town have no idea what newsworthy content means. He’s waiting for the day he can suggest they extend the tips out to the writer’s pool and let them search for good news as well.

_(I’m gonna be late!)_

_(I hope there’s soy milk at the coffee station today.)_

_(Crap, have I been walking around with my hair looking like this?)_

His co-worker’s voices start to drown out his own. The little thoughts, some recognizable, others passing before he can catch a glimpse of the person thinking them, pique his interest far too often for Patrick to get any work done.

Then an idea strikes him. He turns around slowly, grabbing a notepad from his desk, and clicking the pen. Time for a little character assessment. Nothing too creepy, just a jumping-off point to understand how this weird, unpredictable power works.

He writes ‘Reading Minds 101’ at the top of the page, because this is just for him and he can be as corny as he likes.

Of course, the first inner voice he tunes into is the loudest of all. It’s been lording over the others all morning. Patrick makes his way to the edge of the set, pretending to read some notes. Nearby, Alexis approaches Moira’s desk with a stack of printouts.

“Ready to go over the leads from the tip inbox?” Alexis says.

“Very well. Make it quick, I have to cut a promotional before the election interviews.”

Alexis begins rattling off email subject lines as she flips through pages.

“My neighbor stole my hubcaps.”

“Pass,” Moira says tiredly.

“Our toddler can fit thirty-one Oreos in her mouth.”

“With milk or without?”

“…With?”

“Perish the thought.”

As Alexis and Moira’s rapid-fire words overlap, their thoughts do as well. Patrick struggles to keep up with four competing voices. He walks slowly to the edge of the set, pretending to look occupied. As he passes closer to Moira, her thoughts become louder, silencing Alexis’.

_(Alexis, we both know I haven't the time to chase leads for fluff pieces…we should start to farm news tips out to the writer’s pool. I shan't be the one to suggest it, though. I can’t let these springy little upstarts know I’m overworked.)_

Patrick backs away a little. He was expecting something a little more…he doesn’t know. Cartoon villain-ish?

“Okay, what about ‘my husband woke up on the roof, doctor doesn’t know how he got there’ –”

 _“No_ , Alexis! I beg you to find me something readable!”

Reading Minds 101

The closer the source, the louder the volume

M.R. wants to give writers more authority too?? Must show her my spreadsheets one day

Good story about a man on the roof

Moving back to his desk, Patrick hears Twyla before he sees her.

 _(_ _🎶_ _Lovin Spoonful – Do you Believe in Magic_ _🎶_ _)_

Damn. So he can hear brainworms, as well.

Reading Minds 101

You now have a personal soundtrack? Nice.

 _(_ _🎶_ _Lovin Spoonful – Do you Believe in Magic_ _🎶_ _)_

_(This song reminds me of when me and Tom got abandoned at Gander Airport and a Newfoundland fisherman gave us a raw fish to eat.)_

_(_ _🎶_ _Lovin Spoonful – Do you Believe in Magic_ _🎶_ _)_

Patrick gets sick of the song pretty quickly.

“Hey Twyla, think fast!”

Patrick grabs the stress ball off his desk and lobs it at Twyla. She catches it, and the song immediately pauses. Twyla laughs, throwing it back to him, before turning back to the printer.

 _(_ _🎶_ _Queen – Bohemian Rhapsody_ _🎶_ _)_

Fuck’s sake.

Reading Minds 101

You can’t shut this thing off, so get prepared to hear a lot.

He puts his headphones on and streams a white noise loop as he works. One of the stories Moira rejected gave him a bit of inspiration. Maybe there’s a benefit to sneaking around the office, picking up all the bits of stories that other people don’t want.

After an hour or so, Patrick is printing out a rough copy of his work when Ronnie stomps up to the writer’s desks, her face scrunched in its usual scowl.

“Hey, where the hell are my morning outlines? Are you all asleep over here?”

“Sorry, Ronnie! We were all a little behind this morning,” Stevie says. “We were just welcoming Patrick back.”

“Who?”

“Me,” Patrick says, turning around with the papers in his hand, still hot from printing. “And I have a story for you right here!”

He thrusts the stack into Ronnie’s hands. She frowns, sceptical, and skims over the pages.

“Guy wakes up on a roof…no idea how he got there…where was this, in Schitt’s Creek? Not surprised. Wait, no history of sleepwalking? Doctors baffled?”

Ronnie looks up from the paper, nodding.

“Hah, this isn’t bad. I mean, it’s not _good,_ but it's something.” Ronnie looks at Patrick again, and recognition hits her. “Wait, Patrick Brewer – you’re the one who got hit by lightning! What on earth are you doing back here already?”

“Bringing you winning stories, that’s what,” Patrick says. “Oh, and the doctors said my vitals were good.”

“Huh. Wow. You’ve got spunk, I’ll give you that.”

Ronnie turns to the rest of the office, her glare returning.

“Wish I could say the same for the rest of you! We have an important interview today, and we’re a few hands short. Twyla, I need you on set _yesterday.”_

_(I can’t believe Bob picked today of all days to get food poisoning. I’d fire him if he wasn’t in union.)_

“Uh, maybe Patrick can help you?” Stevie says suddenly.

“Me? But I don’t know the first thing about –”

Stevie shoots him a look. Thankfully, Patrick doesn’t have to try and decipher what it means anymore.

_(Come on, dude. If you want to get ahead, doing Ronnie a favor won’t hurt.)_

Ronnie looks him up and down. “Fine, kid. You can set up the lights.”

****

“Twyla, please tell me you know the first thing about lights.”

“How hard could it be? I thought you just hit the ‘on’ switch at the right moment.”

“You say that, but the last thing I need is to get fired for breaking a five-thousand-dollar lamp.”

As Patrick orients himself with the lamp, he watches people bustle all around him, talking and thinking about the election and some weird mother-son tension that everyone else seems to understand except him. He turns back to Twyla, sucking on an apparently electrocuted finger.

“The studio never looks this busy from our desks,” he says. “Something special going on today?”

“Today’s especially exciting,” Twyla says. “Ronnie’s been trying to book David Rose on here for ages, and now it turns out _Moira_ is gonna be interviewing him! His own mother!”

Patrick grimaces. Of all the kitschy, small-city things…

“He’s been surprisingly hard to get ahold of,” Twyla says. “You’d think politicians would _want_ more publicity leading up to an election. Sebastien Raine has certainly been making his mark.”

Then, a familiar voice cuts through the studio.

“Excuse me, may I get our _guest_ on set without stumbling over all these blasted electrical wires? Where’s Bob? This place is a mess.”

Patrick ducks behind the light, hoping Moira won’t see him. She makes her way behind her desk, and a well-dressed man follows her. Somehow, he seems to get _more_ well-dressed as he comes closer.

He’s wearing quite possibly the most tailored suit Patrick has ever seen, and accentuates his every – well, _everything –_ so perfectly that Patrick wonders if it was sewn onto him. It’s a silken blend of black and blue pinstripes, complete with shiny black loafers and a hand of thick silver rings that reflect off the studio lights.

Barely thinking, Patrick angles the light in his hands so that it’s shining almost directly onto who must be David Rose, and…fuck.

Is this what people talk about when they see Alexis?

He is, unquestionably, absolutely stunning. But he’s stunning in a way that actually _does things_ to Patrick. He knows without a shadow that if David had Alexis’ job as studio manager, his own productivity would be sat in a mushy heap on the floor.

David settles into his seat, looking uncomfortable, and Twyla signals to one of the other camerapeople. The theme music for Elmdale County News begins and Moira twirls round in her chair, flashing a winning smile at the camera.

“Wilkommen, bienvenue and welcome, exalted citizens of northeast On-ta-ri-o! This morning, I’m positively thrilled to introduce our guest, David Rose, the newest prospective gubernatorial candidate for Elmdale County. While _Raine’s_ campaign has been making delicious little waves all over the metaphorical political tide, David’s approach has been somewhat more...subdued.”

_(Try not to sound so excited about my opponent, Mom.)_

An unfamiliar voice piques Patrick’s interest. He turns to David, tensed under the hot lights.

_(It’s fine. It’s fine. You have ideas. Don’t fuck this up.)_

“Nevertheless, David here still seems to be making somewhat of an impact on our likely surprised electorate! Your ratings were up thirty-five percent last week, and almost that when you originally pitched your campaign.”

 _(Not that that’s much to brag about, unfortunately,)_ Moira thinks. Ah. So there’s that mother-son tension everyone was talking about.

David narrows his eyes in a bitter smile. “Unfortunately, that’s not much to brag about. I still have a long way to go if I want to start holding a candle to my opponent’s ratings – and, believe me, I do.”

Huh. Patrick flits his gaze between the two, who were pretending hard not to know each other. If only they knew how similar they were.

“Such fighting words from a…questionably experienced politician. Tell me, how have your relations with Sebastien Raine fared since you became politically opposed?”

 _(Why are you talking about him? We are going to be having_ words _later.)_

“He’s…certainly never made things easy for me. I’m sure you know that as well as anyone.”

“Of course. I have to ask, David…this new job is a real change of pace from everything you were used to back in your days of being heir of Rose Media. How have you adjusted?”

David tenses again. Patrick watches his jaw clench, trying to focus on the interview rather than how his jaw looks sharp enough to cut steel.

“I’m not sure what you’re getting at,” he says.

“Well, given your history of acting out, and the fact that you dropped out of college, isn’t this all a bit…overwhelming for you?”

_(Are you asking me as a reporter or a mother?)_

Despite the irritation in David’s thoughts, he answers Moira with a straight, composed face almost immediately.

“If by ‘acting out’ you’re referring to the civil disobedience I took part in –”

“You mean those little PR stunts?” Moira offers unhelpfully.

“– I’d say that actually qualifies me more,” David continues, his voice gaining a semblance of control and drive it didn’t have before. “I’m passionate about the society we live in and calling for change when something isn’t working.”

“Certainly, but –”

“As for my education, you can’t blame me for assuming I’d spend my life having everything handed to me, thereby forming the basis of my decision to drop out.”

“Yes, but I –”

“Which you, _of all people,_ should know.”

David shoots a long, cool stare out into the stunned studio. For a second, he meets Patrick’s eyes and – yup, he’s hard. That was…that was –

 _(Man, that was hot,)_ one of the camerapeople thinks. Patrick agrees.

Patrick leans into Twyla. “She stands corrected,” he murmurs.

Moira turns back to the camera, a gluey smile plastered on her face.

“And there we have it, citizens. A real self-made man. We’ll be back after the advertisements.”

The lights go up and the cameras stop rolling. David’s cool composure melts away and he stands up sharply.

“What is this, TMZ? I thought you invited me here to talk about my campaign, not try and drag me through the mud,” he snaps.

“Well, forgive me for assuming you’d have grown a thicker skin in the past few years, David!” Moira cries. “It’s character building, dear. You cannot afford to be precious in a time like this.”

“Precious?! I –”

Ronnie beckons for a word with Moira and David storms off, running a hand over the upturned sweep of his perfect hair as he goes.

_(Come on, David. Keep it together. You can still do this. You can still make something out of yourself.)_

Patrick watches David until the lights stop bouncing off his effervescent figure and rounds the corner into the dressing rooms. He assesses the room, making sure there are no juicy thoughts floating around – because that’s a thing he does now, apparently – and slowly creeps away from the set.

When he slips into the dressing room, David is hunched over the desk, his head bent.

_(…)_

Patrick strains his head, but he can’t quite make out his thoughts. They’re not so easy to hear when David’s out of the moment.

“Um…ahem – excuse me? Mr. Rose?”

David whirls around, quickly composing himself. Even when he’s stressed, he still looks better than Patrick on his best days.

“Who are you? What is it? Do they need me back on set?”

“No, I…I just wanted to check that you’re okay.”

David looks taken aback. “Oh. Oh, right. Well. I’m fine. Don’t overthink it, my mother’s like that with all her guests. Including her own son, apparently.”

“It doesn’t give her the right to speak to you like that, though!” Patrick bursts out, then snaps his mouth shut. Tense though they may be, Moira is still his mother, and Patrick bets there’s a semblance of some relationship there.

David snorts at him. “It’s no big deal. Rude reporters are, um...what's that tennis thing? Ball on the court or something?"

"Par for the course. And I think it's golf."

"Whatever. They're _par for the course_ in this line of work.”

“Well, I’m sorry you have to go through that. It must get tough.”

David cocks his head at Patrick, a curious look on his face.

_(Is he actually just…being nice? Without an agenda? Does he have a hidden wire on him?)_

“No,” Patrick says suddenly.

“What?”

“I…”

Yikes. He’s still getting used to that whole double voice thing, apparently.

“I was just – disagreeing, in general. With the whole – the whole thing. About rude reporters.”

_(He seems impatient. Jittery.)_

“What’s your name?”

“Oh, sorry – it’s Patrick. Patrick Brewer. Nice to meet you, Mr. Rose.”

_(Boy Scout vibes.)_

“Please, none of the Mr. Rose. That’s my dad.”

“Sorry. I never usually work with the guests on this show, so I don’t know how formal we’re meant to be.”

Patrick stuffs his hands in his suit pockets and accidentally sets free a load of cue cards he didn’t know he’d left in there. He drops to the floor, his face reddening as he tries to pick them up. It’s then he realizes that he’s not only a mind reader, but an absolute sucker for pinstriped suits and the men inside them.

“So what _do_ you do, then?” David says. His thoughts are a little blurry again. “Since talking to me clearly isn’t your job.”

“Oh – I’m sorry, if you want me to leave –”

_(Nice one, David.)_

“No, no – I wasn’t – I just, I don’t wanna keep you from your work.”

“No, you’re not! I mean, you actually sounded like you had some good stories out there. Like your civil disobedience? What was that all about?”

“I used to stage walkouts in high school and college because the dress codes were heteronormative and disproportionately affected young women,” David says matter-of-factly. “I kept my entire grade out of school for almost an entire month. Mom and Dad were pissed at me because they were worried it would make them look bad, but we finally convinced the administration to enact a policy change and thus…the case of Rose v Rose Media did its rounds again.”

Patrick sits down, and David sits down with him. He looks more…open here. More earnest. More comfortable. Damn, he even looks hotter than he did out there, with his face more relaxed.

“Do you think it’s things like that that inspired you to break away and get into politics?” Patrick asks.

David shrugs. “Mostly. It was like…well, I don’t know. I got a taste of what it feels like to actually accomplish something. When I assumed I was going to inherit Rose Media, I was just getting paraded around and talked in circles by people like _Sebastien Raine.”_ He spits the name out. Patrick makes a mental note to revisit that one later. “I was just, I don’t know, stuck in a –”

“–Rut?” Patrick offers. “Like you just had no idea what people wanted from you?”

_(Fuck, he’s good at this. Keep it professional.)_

Patrick shifts into the reporter mode he’s been practicing in front of his mirror since he was eighteen. “So, what’s next for you? It can’t be hard for someone so intelligent, passionate, and hard-working to –” Patrick falters. “To, um, find ways to change the community.”

David smiles, his gaze fixed on Patrick for a deliciously long beat.

_(Scratch professional. I’m loving this.)_

“Uh-huh. Keep it coming. This is a way better conversation than the one I just had. I –”

There’s a bang and Ronnie storms in, hands on her hips.

“You. In my office. Now.”

Patrick glances at David one last time, who raises an eyebrow. A pit forms in his stomach as he follows Ronnie out of the dressing room.

Once in her office, Ronnie plops down behind her desk and Patrick feels like he’s shrinking in front of her, wringing his hands.

“Look, I can explain. I only went into the dressing room to check he was okay, I promise I wasn’t overstepping –”

Ronnie waves him away with a hand. “I don’t care why you were actually in there. What I care is that you managed to get more out of our guest in five minutes than our head reporter in the entire live segment.”

Patrick stands in stunned silence, the dread of having blown everything again crumbling away.

"You were spying on us - uh, on me?"

Ronnie cackles at him again, like she did the other day. It sounds no different, but this time she’s actually impressed.

“I spy on people for a living, kid. I mean, you took my advice, that’s for sure! It’s like you were inside his head. You know what? Forget ten stories. How’d you like to be our newest junior reporter?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- JSYK, I sorely wish there was more Stevie/Patrick and Twyla/Patrick friendship content out there. Hop on it, people, and I'll do my best to contribute!


	3. Thought Process

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Minor TW for mention of drugs in this chapter.

Patrick’s noodles are long since cold in their cardboard box. For the past three hours he’s been sat on his couch, calling and texting all the people who matter and half watching some documentary on a retired MLB player, which he would usually find way more interesting than he actually is.

 _Junior reporter._ Even just thinking about it makes him grin like an idiot. This is all he’s ever wanted – even before he graduated college, before he moved provinces. He thinks about all the times he used to stand at third base in his middle school’s baseball tournaments, commentating the match he was watching unfold before him, pretending he was a newsreader telling the world about the most thrilling game of all time the next morning. He wishes he could go back in time and tell little Patrick it was all worth it in the end.

His phone rings. He picks it up.

“Hello?”

“Brewer, I hope you’re ready to jump straight into this job, ‘cause I already have a couple of leads for you.”

It’s Ronnie. Trying to bite back his excitement, Patrick nods her on.

“I’m listening.”

“First one’s a bit cutesy. A woman in Schitt’s Creek has gotten herself internet famous for a stupid video of her cat walking on stilts, and Moira refuses to cover it.”

“Moira’s rejects? I’ll take it.”

Ronnie snorts. “I knew I made the right choice. Your spineless craving for approval will make you a strong junior reporter.”

Patrick tries not to sound too offended at that. “…It will?”

“Oh, yeah. Your first assignments will be thankless, so hard-nosed, experienced types won’t do well. They’re always just looking for more story that isn’t there.”

“Well, maybe there _is_ more story there. I might surprise you!”

“I doubt it on both counts,” Ronnie says, but Patrick can hear her smiling. Maybe he’ll actually end this year having surpassed Ronnie’s ‘meh’ books as well as her bad books.

“So if you’re just sat at home, you can pull up Jinx99’s video of this circus cat and give it a watch, or whatever.”

“Okay. And does she have a real name?”

“All we got is her address. The rest is your job. Try to come up with some good questions, but don’t hurt yourself. You’re still on training wheels. And, as always, thin ice.”

****

The next day, Patrick walks into the studio with the first spring in his step he’s felt since he came to this goddamned place, beaming about his first real interview.

“Morning, Stevie,” he says, hitting her lightly with a newspaper on the way past. “Guess who’s ready to take Elmdale County by storm?”

“So, you nabbed yourself the crazy cat lady story? Nice,” Stevie says.

“Oh, you mean the _artistic director_ of the masterpiece short movie, ‘Cat on Stilts Must Watch Hilarious’? Jinx99 is a visionary, not just a cat lady.”

“Look at you, buzzwords flying everywhere! This is why you’re the newest junior reporter and not me. I literally do not have the ability to feign excitement about anyone within a hundred-mile radius of this area.”

“Well, you’ll be glad to know you don’t get to accompany me today. Twyla’s coming along for the ride instead.”

“Oh – really?” Stevie’s face blanks out.

_(So much for asking her to lunch, then.)_

And then, Patrick tries something new. Called tact, he thinks.

“Yeah,” he says nonchalantly, “but we’ll probably be back before, I don’t know, lunchtime? See you!”

He shrugs and walks off, brightening at the hope that starts to creep back onto Stevie’s expression.

_(I wonder if she likes bagels.)_

Patrick checks his watch and is about to grab his coat when he feels a tap – well, more like a flap – on his shoulder. He turns around to see Alexis there, holding a clipboard and focusing on the headset in her ear.

“Mm. Mm-hm. Yeah. Yup.” She holds up a finger as if Patrick was the one who interrupted _her_. “Okay, I’ll get him ready. Oh my God, imagine? Kisses, talk to you later!”

Alexis lifts up her headset and her face immediately falls into a grave expression. She legitimately looks like someone’s died.

“Patrick, someone told me it’s your first time on camera today, and…I have a concern.”

Patrick’s stomach drops to his feet. Oh, fuck. This is where it all comes crashing down. Alexis is gonna tell him he’s not ready or that he said something problematic on the internet ten years ago or that he’s gonna be recognized by the axe murderer who’s out to kill him or –

“Is that seriously what you’re wearing?”

 _Oh, thank fuck._ Patrick tries not to sag into Alexis’ little dinosaur hands with relief.

“Um…yes.”

Now Alexis is looking at him like she’d just heard that _he’d_ died.

“Oh…oh. Come – come here. Come with me.”

She puts a pitying arm around his shoulders and leads him out of the office and into the dressing room.

“Alexis, I didn’t really bring any other clothes today, I’m not sure what I’ll have to –”

She holds a finger to his lip, shushing him. “Listen. You usually rock the blindfolded discount bin vibe, and I think that’s very brave. But you’re gonna be on TV for the first time ever! You want to make an impression, don’t you?”

“I mean, not to act all high and mighty, but it’s a mid-morning segment about a cat.”

Alexis shrugs as she starts sifting through a rack of expensive-looking shirts and coats. “Advice? Never underestimate this job. It’s a weird-ass place, you never know what you might stumble onto today.”

She pulls a silky cream shirt from the rack and pairs it with a stylish camel felt overcoat. They both look like they cost more than Patrick’s rent. Up until now, he’d always assumed news reporters wore their own clothes and that they were all just mega rich (a hope that had been dashed last night when he was emailed a breakdown of his new paygrade). He always told himself that he’d stay dressed down if he ever reached this point in his career, but if the company card was splashing out on Mulberry and Ralph Lauren? Well, he’s not about to complain.

He steps into the changing room. The shirt fits him more nicely than any of the ones he has at home, and when he emerges Alexis gasps and claps her hands together like a seal.

 _“Cute,_ Patrick! Good luck today. You’re gonna smash it.”

As Alexis leaves him to hang up his old coat and transfer his phone and keys from its pockets, Patrick can’t help but smiling to himself. He _is_ gonna smash it.

A little while later, Patrick and Twyla pull up at this Jinx99 woman’s house and ring the buzzer. As he waits to be let in, he notices a surveillance camera mounted over the door.

“Do you think she’s got that to protect the _cat?”_ Patrick says.

“Good question. Maybe keep that in mind for the interview!”

The door flies open, and there stands the woman. Stevie was right. She _is_ a crazy cat lady.

“Morning! You must be the reporters from the station. Why don’t you come on in?” she says.

Twyla crosses the threshold first, and Patrick immediately picks up on the appearance of her ‘I-really-hate-this-place-but-I-wanna-be-polite’ face. The house has a vague, musky stench of animal and plant that’s not terrible, but will never be pleasant. It’s the kind of smell a future resident might make a dealbreaker over.

“Okay, Jinx, you just get yourself sat down there and we’ll set up the tripod,” Twyla says.

“Oh, Jinx is actually the cat. My name’s Tilly,” the lady says.

_(Okay, Tilly. Deep breaths.)_

Patrick’s feeling a little on edge himself, but he’s surprised at how much Tilly seems to be freaking out. It’s essentially an interview about how her cat can walk.

The living room is dark, with all the curtains pulled. Patrick sits down and the smell intensifies. It seems to be…wafting from somewhere. He figures it’s just the cat wandering into the room.

“Right, so we’ll get started,” he says, making sure the cameras are rolling. “I’m Patrick Brewer, and with me today is internet sensation Jinx99 from Schitt’s Creek. So, Tilly, a lot of activity going on in this house, huh?”

_(What’s that supposed to mean? Is he onto me?)_

“Uh…yes! Me and Jinxy have a lot of fun.”

Patrick pauses, trying to figure out what she could have possibly meant, when he hears something that isn’t Tilly or Twyla.

_(Shit…just a few more to go…)_

Patrick looks up towards the far door leading into the hall. A few more what? And who even said that?

As Twyla follows the cat around the living room, trying to get some footage of it, Patrick pretends to follow her by strolling casually towards the door. It feels a lot warmer over on this side. He rolls up his sleeves, making to continue with the interview with Tilly tailing him nervously.

“So, do you…live alone? With Jinx?”

“Yep! It’s just us. No one else.”

“Hm. The house is awfully big for one woman and her cat.” He tries to play it off, but he’s getting more curious. The room gets a little warmer.

_(Crap.)_

Suddenly, Patrick can’t stave off his curiosity any longer. “Hey, you know what I’m thinking? Let’s get a tour of the house!”

“Oh, I really don’t think that’s necessary. There isn’t much else to see, and besides, the cat is right here!”

“Actually, a house tour is a good idea, Patrick. We probably need some establishing shots of the house, Jinx!”

“Again, Jinx is the cat,” Tilly snaps. She looks desperate.

Then Twyla lifts her head, sniffing the air. “Hm. It smells like my mom in here.”

“What –”

“Like a musky, planty kind of –”

Not wanting to wait a second longer, Patrick wrenches open the door. Heat billows out like he’s opened an oven. In a sea of orange lights and foil window coverings sits a man, clipping away at leaves. Some very Class-A-levels-of-illegal looking leaves. And Twyla’s camera is right on him.

Beneath the solid layer of what-the-fuck and smothering, dead stench of the coca plants, Patrick can’t help feeling triumphant. Ronnie’s _definitely_ going to regret underestimating him after this.

****

_“I’m Patrick Brewer, reporting from Schitt’s Creek, Ontario, where Elmdale County News got derailed this morning after a seemingly harmless interview turned into the dramatic conclusion to a months-long drug busting trail. Police remain at the scene while…”_

“I have to admit, reporting about badass things like drug busts is a good look on you. I expected another few months of fluff pieces, at _least,_ ” Stevie says as everyone watches a rerun of the report in the studio, where Patrick’s discovery has the whole place buzzing. Ted barrels over, newspapers in hand, beaming from ear to ear.

“I heard your news, big guy! That’s incredible! And hey, how’s this for a tagline – _in the nip of time._ Cause, you know, cats. Catnip. And drugs. And you caught them in the nick of time –”

“Yeah, Ted, I get it.”

The group largens as the shots of the house come onscreen (“That’s _me_ behind the camera!” Twyla says triumphantly). Ronnie claps him on the shoulder as she approaches, flanked by Moira and Alexis.

“Not bad, Brewer,” Ronnie says. “And that’s coming from someone who suspected you might be a disaster.”

Alexis totters over to his side in her heels, squeezing Patrick’s wrist and making a weird, fond little sound.

“Look at you _go,_ Patrick! I can’t wait to see the edited cut. This is gonna be our top story tonight.”

“Yes, our wee Peter does seem to have climbed the ranks rather quick and vociferously, doesn’t he?” Moira says.

Her expression is as unreadable as her thoughts, but Patrick manages to catch the words _replace me_ and _meek muppet_ and decides that Moira’s thoughts are probably going to get very entertaining as long as they stay harmless.

As the broadcast wraps up, the group begins to disperse.

“Celebratory drinks?” Stevie asks of Patrick and Twyla when everyone else is gone.

Patrick thinks about taking shots in Stevie’s favorite bar – some rundown thing called the Wobbly Elm – and a wave of fatigue passes over him.

“Thanks, but I think I’m gonna take a raincheck. It’s been a long day,” Patrick says.

“Sure thing. Get some rest, Anchorman.”

“See you tomorrow – well, tonight, on our screens! I’ll be recording every second,” Twyla says.

Patrick exits the building and turns right towards the not-quite-a-town-not-quite-a-city center. It’s not just that he’s tired, but he’s overwhelmed, too. Becoming reporter is the second biggest thing that’s ever happened in his life – and of course, the first thing happened just 24 hours before that, so Patrick would be lying to himself if he said he wasn’t feeling a little frazzled.

The sky is pink, streaked with flossy, broken clouds, and Patrick breathes a sigh of relief when he looks up and feels the warm air. He might stay out for a bit longer tonight, wandering through Elmdale Park, maybe pick up some fries or a burrito and just enjoy the time he has alone without any thoughts buzzing around him.

Then Patrick hears someone before he…well, hears them. So much for silence.

 _(Wait, is that him? Don’t say anything. Don’t be weird. Wait, it_ is _him. Don’t fuck this up –)_

“I must say, a cocaine-growing crazy cat lady might be the most Schitt’s Creek thing I’ve ever heard in my life.”

Patrick turns back around to see David Rose perched on the park wall. Though he’s only met him once before, sitting on a park wall is something that Patrick wouldn’t ever expect David to do. He’d seemed so… _sleek_ yesterday, with his perfectly shaped suit and perfectly shaped hair and perfectly shaped a–

“That is what it was, wasn’t it?”

“What? Oh. Yeah, it was. Sorry, guess you caught me off guard there for a second.”

David’s mouth twists into a little smile. He jumps down from the wall with all the grace of a newborn giraffe and the smile immediately drops as he stumbles in the thick bed of brown leaves on the grass, brushing at his trousers.

_(What the fuck was that, David?)_

Though he feels bad that David seems slightly mortified, Patrick can’t help a little teasing.

“Have you been going to the gym? Because that looked effortless,” he says.

David bares his teeth at him in a frustrated growl. “Ugh, don’t! No one’s ever usually around when I come here. I haven’t –” he kicks his way through the leaves to join Patrick on the path – “mastered the art of the recovery yet.”

“Oh, so sitting on the walls of Elmdale Park is an occupational habit for you, is it?”

David shrugs. “Kind of. I find myself here a lot when I have a day off.”

Patrick looks him up and down – not for the first time – and sees a difference in his look from yesterday, one that definitely says day off. His hair hasn’t been slicked up to its full, shiny, straightened potential; it’s fluffing and curling round in soft-looking waves on top of his head. Paired with glasses instead of (presumably) contacts and a white shirt that looks simple but probably costs more than Patrick’s entire reporting outfit today, David looks worlds more comfortable than he did yesterday. Patrick tries to focus on the sweetness of that instead of the low buttons of his shirt and the curly black hair that’s peeking through from his chest, but then gives up and decides he can admire both in equal measure.

“So, what brings you out here? No adoring fans lining up to lick you yet?” David says.

_(Lick him? Why would you say that?)_

Patrick snorts. “I think you’ll find my adoring fans are all inside making fancams of my report,” Patrick says. “Did you hear it’s not just local? It’s up and down the province as well. Some of my cousins are gonna see it.”

David smirks. “Why do I feel like ‘it’s not just local’ is gonna be something I’m hearing a lot?”

“Who says you’ll be hearing me a lot?”

_(Wait, what does that mean? Fuck. You messed it up. You should just go.)_

Alarmed, Patrick looks at David, whose face doesn’t betray the panic in his thoughts.

“That was a joke, by the way,” Patrick amends quickly. “While we’re on the subject, I really enjoyed our mini interview yesterday.”

_(Thank God. And so did I.)_

“So did I,” David says. “It feels like that was the only decent interview I’ve had since I got this stupid job, and it got cut short by your boss.”

_(…)_

Patrick finetunes his hearing, trying to concentrate on David’s thoughts, but they’ve gone fuzzy. Patrick’s starting to catch on that that’s something that happens when there’s too much going on in someone’s head. Or maybe sometimes people literally close themselves off, refusing to even think in case they’re seen. Patrick’s hoping it’s the former.

“It did, yeah.” Patrick desperately wants to ask him to continue the conversation somewhere, but without David’s thoughts it’s kind of hard to tell what he wants. Hopefully he won’t start relying on them too much, like life before WiFi or something.

Then, because he’s an absolute disaster, all it takes is a look at those stupid undone shirt buttons again and Patrick throws caution to the wind.

“I mean, if you want, we could try it again over something to eat?”

David’s face lights up immediately. Game, set and match to Psychic Brewer.

“I’d like that,” David says softly.

And Patrick’s glad no one else around here can read minds. _God, he’s so fucking cute._

He wonders for a second why his thoughts sound like they’re being said in David’s voice, but shakes it off and lets David lead him out of the center and to a beautiful area near the river on the outskirts of Elmdale. It’s an upmarket place, one Patrick could admittedly be no further from in his dingy two-bedroom apartment. But David looks right at home. Of course he does. With his cut-off trousers and perfectly imperfect hair, he looks like a rich European on holiday.

The restaurant is called _Bluefin,_ a white, balconied seafood eatery right on the waterfront. David talks to the front of house and gets them seated on the second-to-top floor, facing the glimmering river.

Patrick looks anywhere but at David, feeling a little breathless. Like something is happening _,_ even though this is nothing more than dinner with someone he met _yesterday._ He needs to get a grip.

_(Ugh, you need to get a grip.)_

“What?” Patrick says suddenly. Was David talking about Patrick? Oh God, was he really being that obvious?

David looks blank. “What?”

“Did you think – uh, say something?”

David frowns at him. “Um, no.”

“Oh. Right. Shall we order?”

Eager to get back into the swing of the ‘interview’ (which, at this point, Patrick is less bothered about in favor of just getting to know David better), they order. Patrick chooses the cheapest thing on the menu, a simple shrimp bisque with some crackers on the side. Judging by the large boiled seafood platter and side of oysters that arrive and almost outweigh the other side of the table, David has chosen the most expensive.

“So, David,” Patrick says, blowing on his first mouthful of soup. He supposes he’d better get _something_ said at some point, before he gets too lost in the quite frankly illegal way that David is sucking on his fingers as he eats. “I do actually have another question I was desperate to ask yesterday, but I felt a little too tabloid-y.”

“I’m not sure it would be possible for you to sound tabloid-y. You’ve got too much of a squeaky clean, inquisitive vibe going on.”

Patrick laughs at him in shock. “Excuse me? You want me to ask personal questions and air your dirty laundry instead?”

_(Pfft. There’s nothing you could ask me that’s not already plastered in the Northeast Chronicle.)_

“Whatever. Shoot your question.”

“Why’d you leave Rose Media?”

_(…)_

“Good question,” David says. “And I’m not saying that rhetorically. Like, it’s a _good_ question. Not too invasive. Straight to the point. Good job, reporter boy.”

“And…you’re deflecting.”

“Nope.”

_(Yup.)_

“If you don’t answer my questions, I can’t ask them.”

“Ugh, fine.” David actually takes his focus off his food for a second – much to Patrick’s dismay, because watching him eat was equal parts adorable and attractive – and looks up. “There’s a lot of…friction there. With my family. You saw it the other day with my mom.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“I know Elmdale’s not a big city, and it’s not like we’re known anywhere beyond Ontario or anywhere Rose Media isn’t used, but still…it’s a lot. I’ve spent the past couple of years watching my dad sit back while money just _appears_ in his account. And as far as I know, my mom and Alexis were never really passionate about the jobs they do.”

Patrick remembers Moira and Alexis’ thoughts. Moira’s about being overworked, Alexis’ about wanting to achieve more.

“I don’t like asking for what I want, I like _getting_ what I want,” David continues, and Patrick tries not to find that as hot as he does. “I want to work for it. Make a change, not just inherit something I don’t care about.”

“…Wow.”

David meets Patrick’s eyes and smirks. “What?”

“No, nothing. It’s just…impressive.”

“You know what? Now I have a question for you,” David says, chewing on a piece of shrimp.

“I don’t think that’s how the game works, David.”

_(Oh, so this is a game now, is it?)_

And he says as much. Patrick laughs.

“Absolutely. The loser pays.”

“What made you decide to become a reporter?”

“Ooh, okay. This is gonna sound really weird, but when I was a kid, I always loved being the first one to tell anyone news. Even if it was shocking or not exactly good, like a really famous celebrity death or some theory about the government proven true. I mean, I can’t lie, the attention was pretty fun, but I liked the feeling of control I had, even if the news had shocked me as well. It made me feel like I was really living through it.”

Patrick tunes into David’s thoughts to try and see if there’s anything there about it being a dumb reason, but he can’t hear them. Only this time, it’s more…peaceful. As though he’s really listening to him.

“And as well as that, I just love knowing the _reasons_ for things,” Patrick goes on. “I feel like you never have cause to judge someone until you’ve dug down to the bare bones of their problem.”

And then, he supposes, he kind of likes this power. Even if it feels intrusive and creepy and there are some disgusting things he wishes he could unhear, it’s all he’s ever really wanted. Knowing people. Seeing people.

With a soft smile on his face, David starts to respond when he gets a text through on his phone. Patrick gets one a second later.

“Hang on, it’s Alexis.” David looks down at his phone and his eyes widen.

“Oh my God.”

“What?”

David has fear and anger and a little bit of ‘this-is-fucked’ swirling behind his eyes. “Alexis says the county news producers want me to do a segment this week. _With Sebastien Raine.”_

He keeps reading. Patrick hasn’t even looked down at his own phone yet, he’s so consumed by David’s emotional rollercoaster. Then David looks up at Patrick slowly, peculiarly.

“Um…you might want to check that text on your phone.”

Patrick looks down and sees Alexis’ name on his screen followed by a long message. Details of times and clothing and…Sebastien Raine?

Oh, God.

“David, am I about to interview you on live television?”

Fuck.

Shit.

What is going on.

Patrick can’t decide which of his emotions he wants to prioritise. There’s the confusion of being promoted so quickly, the _elation_ of being promoted so quickly, the fear of interviewing someone (well, two people) live while hearing all of their thoughts, the gay panic that one of those people is David, or the deflation that he’s doing this all on his own.

“Right…okay,” Patrick says, trying not to let his voice shake. “I should probably go. Have some people to call. Things to do.”

_(Shame. I could’ve sat here all night.)_

David nods hurriedly. “Same. People to call. Namely Alexis, to yell at her for making me sit next to _Sebastien fucking Raine_ for however long on such short notice.”

Patrick settles the bill – they said loser has to pay, and he definitely feels like he’s losing right now – and leaves the restaurant, disappointed that he didn’t really get to give David a proper goodbye. He tries to calm himself down on the way home, thinking about practical things like researching Sebastien Raine (because David’s hatred seems way deeper than the rivalry of two prospective county governors) or what he’s going to say when he greets the viewers.

But it’s all too much. He can feel himself spiralling. He’s going to sink way deeper than he wants to if he doesn’t get someone involved. Get a load off his chest.

He sits down on a bench in Elmdale Park and takes out his phone, pulling up Stevie’s number.

“Stevie, are you awake?”

“Dude, it’s 9pm. Of course I am.”

“Sorry, I just – yeah. I’m not with it right now.”

“What’s up? Are you drunk? You do sound a bit out of it.”

“No, I’m sober, I’m just…Stevie, are you free to meet up right now?”

“I guess…Why, what’s wrong?”

Patrick takes a breath. “I have something I need to tell you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Riley_Walker, if you see this - I hope you noticed the pressurising outfit change I included, just like in Choices gameplay lol!!


	4. Don't Think Twice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so happy with the way this fic is going! Thanks so much for your support :D

Within half an hour, Patrick is sat opposite Stevie in Elmdale’s all-you-can-eat, dessert-only buffet. His stomach spins like a dryer as he sips on his unsweetened black coffee – not his favorite way to drink it, and certainly not his usual choice of caffeine, but he’s found it helps with the headaches he gets from constant listening. Stevie is alternating between a strawberry funnel cake, a mini tiramisu cup and a bowl of profiteroles, which Patrick paid for (“as penance for dragging me out at this time”), and eyeing him every so often. Then she brushes off her hands and lets her napkin drop over her plate.

“Okay, I was gonna wait until you were ready to say whatever it is you wanna say because you look really distressed, but now I’m just getting bored,” Stevie says. “Out with it.”

Patrick looks at his coffee then drains it in a gulp. “Fine. But I want you to trust me, okay? Seriously. I can’t say it unless you promise you won’t think I’m bullshitting you.”

“Patrick, I think I learned pretty much everything about you when you were thirteen shots in at Twyla’s birthday last year. I can handle whatever embarrassing discovery you’ve made –”

“I can read minds.”

_(…)_

Stevie stares at him for a long time. Then she plucks a final strawberry off her plate and pushes her chair away.

“Okay, and I’m out. Don’t scare me like that again, I thought you had an actual problem.”

_(Jeez. Every time I think I understand this guy’s sense of humor, he throws another curveball.)_

“Jeez. Every time I think I understand this guy’s sense of humor, he throws another curveball.”

Stevie’s already halfway across the all-you-can-eat bar when she stops. Slowly, she turns back around, staring at Patrick in the way he thinks a 17th-century Salem Puritan might stare at the local witch.

“What did you just say?”

_(What the hell. What the actual, flipping, FUCK. Can you hear me right now?)_

“Loud and clear,” Patrick says, smiling. His heart is hammering with the thrill of someone finally knowing his secret. He can’t wait to be even more smug about it when he gets used to things and it becomes the norm.

“Oh my God. I – this is – when did this happen?” Stevie almost shouts, sitting back down with such force that a profiterole gets launched across the room.

“Shh, not so loud!” Patrick says. “It was after I got hit by lightning. I woke up and I thought I could hear the doctor talking shit about me, but then I realized her lips weren’t moving. After that I started hearing more and more, and…here we are.”

Stevie looks predictably gobsmacked.

“Is that the _only_ thing you can do? You don’t have, I don’t know, laser eyes or telekinetic powers or anything, do you?”

Patrick’s not about to admit that he sat for no less than three hours the other night trying to make a spoon move like Matilda, so he just shakes his head.

“Nope, just the thoughts. Believe me, it’s enough. I feel like I’ve been walking around with a constant headache for the past couple of days.”

_(What about now? Can you hear me now?)_

“Yup, still there.”

 _(You suck. You suck_ ass).

Patrick laughs. “Thank you very much.”

“Oh my God, I don’t even have to talk to you anymore. Wait, is this how you found that drugs guy in the cat woman’s house?”

Patrick nods. “I heard someone panicking because we were there. I think he was trying to rush out before we noticed him, but…” He taps his temple. “You know, I really think I could get used to it.”

Stevie’s back to eating again, and if Patrick knows her well then that means she’s thinking hard about something. He watches her pick at the rest of her funnel cake and waits for the revelation.

“You know, I think you could use this for good,” Stevie says. “Unless you don’t want to and already have plans to manipulate your entire social circle and all the billionaires of the world, in which case I’m right behind you. But being able to see what _some_ people are really thinking? Potential criminals, politicians, people like that? You’d really be onto something.”

Patrick sighs heavily. “Yeah…about that. Something else happened earlier, and it kind of set off the desire to let you know. I’m interviewing David Rose _and_ Sebastien Raine next week.”

“Oh, _shit._ That’s gonna be interesting. And look at you go, man! Sit-down live interviews already? I wanna get struck by lightning now.”

_(Let’s hope there’s no major drama like usual.)_

“What? Major drama?”

Stevie looks confused for a second. “Oh yeah, I forgot that you’re hearing everything _._ There’s a lot that happened before you moved here. I can’t be bothered to explain, I’ll just think about it.”

_(David and Sebastien have known each other for years. They went to the same private school about half an hour from here and grew up in the same neighborhood. They’ve had flings, which usually ended in David being humiliated in some way and ended up in the trashy section of the Northeast Chronicle or some local magazine. Sebastien actually convinced David to move to New York with him for a bit while he tried to pursue some artistic influencer shit, but David ended up getting cheated on for the millionth time and came back and left Rose Media to pursue politics and do something with his life. And Sebastien copied him like a week later.)_

“Wow. That’s…a lot. I’m not sure there’s enough room in the studio to unpack all of that.”

“It’s okay, though. Maybe you can try and word your questions differently based on what they’re thinking?”

“It’s a good idea, but I don’t want to look like I’m playing favorites. Also, I’ve noticed that everyone seems to love Sebastien. Why’s that, if everyone knows about everything he’s done?”

“Ah, but they _don’t_ , that’s the thing. I’ve found all this out down the pipeline and vague subtweets from Elmdale citizens, also known as the smallest corner of the internet out there. People know about the flings themselves, but any articles about David were usually written unfavorably and barely mentioned Sebastien at all. And while Sebastien is a douche, I can’t deny that he’s been a bit better at the whole politics thing than David. He knows what people like and he gives it to them.”

Patrick sat back, mulling it over. There was a lot to think about.

_(I’m tired. And I ate way too much sugar.)_

“It’s okay, you can go home.”

“Damn, why do I keep forgetting about that?”

Patrick smirks. “Get used to it, Budd. I’m in your head now. No escape.”

“Sure. Just do me a favor and don’t respond to anything I say at work.”

For a second Patrick considers mentioning Stevie’s thoughts about Twyla, but he thinks he’s told her quite enough for the night already.

“You’ve got it. See you tomorrow, Stevie.”

“See you.”

_(You still suck.)_

“I heard that!”

****

There are several things Patrick always knew would be difficult. Some of them were typical, like college exams. Some of them were more intense, like leaving home and cutting off everything he knew (for reasons he didn’t understand until just a couple of months ago after a confusing and kind of underwhelming incident with some guy named Jake at a tailgate party that Stevie forced him to attend).

One of them was this.

Informing Moira Rose that Patrick was going to be taking over her segment for half an hour on Friday morning was always going to be a small, but undeniably excruciating, task.

“Veronica, _no!_ What could you possibly mean?” Moira screeches, shuddering on the spot beside Patrick in Ronnie’s office and clutching to a wig, an inexplicable act that Patrick’s come to expect from her. “That interview might end up being the most newsworthy thing that’s fallen upon this wretched studio in _ye_ -ars!”

“I know, and that’s why I’m giving it to the kid,” Ronnie says, unfazed. “His piece the other day got our ratings up higher than they have been all year! I tell you, Moira, he’s got a talent for this thing.”

“Far be it from me to stand in the way of fresh-faced aptitude, but are you certain you want to trust him with Sebastien Raine and a member of the Rose family? It’s akin to taking a thousand-dollar cote de boeuf steak and smothering it in ranch dressing!”

Patrick puts his hands in his pockets, rocking on the balls of his feet. “Gonna try not to take that one personally, but I also kind of agree. Isn’t this a little too soon?”

“Moira, not to step on your train, but your interview with David was a disaster,” Ronnie says. “And Patrick, I know it feels like you were just thrown into all this yesterday –”

“I mean, I literally was –”

“–But I know potential when I see it,” Ronnie went on, ignoring Patrick. “And anyway, look around you.”

Patrick turns to the door to see a smattering of his colleagues, the studio makeup artist and even the janitor jammed in the doorway. They try to look busy when Ronnie’s gaze falls on them.

“People eat up tension. A new reporter and two political candidates with history? I smell a _blitz_ on my hands.”

_(It’s all just a bit of fun, kid. Lean into it.)_

Patrick sighs. It would be more fun (but only marginally so, because these are people who have potential control of people’s livelihoods and not reality show contestants) if he didn’t have such a horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach about Sebastien Raine, who everyone seemed to love. He’d actually heard Jocelyn, the receptionist, call his proposed plans for civil engineering “hot and sexy” the other day.

“Look, I’m not saying David’s policies are _bad,_ but he’s…an acquired taste,” Ted says to Patrick in the cafeteria that afternoon. “Sebastien is just such a people person, you know? I feel like he gets me.”

Patrick remembers what Stevie had told him about Sebastien cheating and manipulating. He’d love to be able to tell Ted all of that, but without any evidence he’d only make a fool of himself.

_(He’d never…Raine on my parade. Ha.)_

Patrick lets out a loud laugh, then stifles it under his hand. Ted turns to him.

“What’re you laughing at?”

“Nothing, it’s just…that one was pretty good.” Then he realizes what he’s said.

“I’m serious about Sebastien!” Ted says, frowning. “I suppose we don’t have to agree on everything, but –”

“No, I wasn’t laughing at that!” Patrick says quickly. “I…” He sighs, sitting back on his red plastic chair. He trusts Ted. Then, without letting himself give it anymore thought, Patrick leans in.

“Ted, can I trust you with something?” he says.

Ted nods. “Of course, you can tell me anything.”

“I was laughing at the joke you just made in your head.”

And Patrick tells him everything. From the lightning all the way up to just before what Stevie told him about Sebastien in the buffet the other day – he would mention it, but without knowing Sebastien properly he’d feel like he was meddling with Ted’s political choices. Ted’s eyes are a hard journey to follow, but Patrick is pretty sure he believes him.

When he finishes, driving home the terrifying reality that all of this could be upturned by a potentially disastrous interview at the end of the week, Ted is in almost as much astonishment as Stevie. He scrunches his eyes shut and holds his hands up as if to slow his thought process down.

“Okay, back up. Focus. You have a segment with Sebastien Raine in a few days. As in, the Sebastien Raine. And you can hear every single one of his thoughts.”

Patrick takes a breath, and nods. (What _he_ hears is, “you have a segment with David Rose in a few days. As in, the David Rose. And you can hear every single one of his thoughts.” He’s in much more anticipation about _that_ part of the day.)

“Yep,” Patrick says. “If there’s anything you can suggest, then I’d be open to hearing it. Seriously. Anything you got going.”

Patrick focuses on Ted’s head.

_(You’ve got to be…um…got ’TV’ kidding me – no, that’s not good…)_

“Ted, stop trying to think of puns!”

“I’m sorry, I can’t help it!” he says desperately. “It’s how I deal with most emotions. I’m learning to restrain myself.”

_(No I’m not.)_

Patrick finishes his lunch and takes his tray to the trashcan.

“You could always ask David for help, seeing as you know him?” Ted says. “Maybe get a better feel for his ethos, see what kinds of plans he has. He’s always been very secretive about it. He kind of clams up in front of the camera.”

“Yeah, I can imagine that.” Not that Patrick had spent a good few hours watching David’s old interviews and consuming as much of his scandalous pre-politics content as the paywalls on news websites would allow. He’d seen a number of descriptions of his campaign methods that all seemed marginally accurate, but not in a way that painted him well: difficult, experimental, even unapproachable. Patrick kept wanting to dig deeper and deeper, but he couldn’t do that if the audience were all drooling over Sebastien.

“It’s my afternoon off, so I should head,” Ted says, “but I hope it turns out well. I’ll be right there watching you on the day!”

“Yeah…” Patrick mutters as Ted walks away. “ _Everyone_ will.”

****

Days later, the studio is moving in a flurry as the guests enter the building. Patrick is having to sit still while the makeup artists dusts his lips and cheeks with a weird-smelling powder and very much fighting the urge to follow the smallest glimpse of David he just caught slipping into the dressing room. He managed to see his hair for a fraction of a second, and is disappointed that it’s back to perfection. Well, other people’s ideas of perfection. Patrick’s happy with those curls, the ones quite like his own when he lets his hair grow out; he wonders how they’d feel if he twirled one round his finger –

“How are you feeling? You’re looking a bit wild-eyed.”

Patrick startles. Stevie’s in front of him, waving a hand in front of his face. He runs a hand down his suit, a fitted navy blue one that Alexis picked out for him, self-consciously and forces a deep breath.

“I’m…yeah, I’m nervous,” he says honestly. “But I’m ready.”

_(Careful you don’t trip over that tongue that lolls out every time David walks by.)_

_Screw you, pal._ Patrick glares up at her as the makeup artist makes some final touches then leaves. “You do not wanna hear my thoughts right now.”

Stevie raises her eyebrows. “Oh _really?_ Are they not safe for work?”

“They’re not safe for you in general. I will not hesitate to throw my shoe at you on live TV.”

Stevie cackles as she walks away.

_(I’m gonna think loads of stupid shit and put you off.)_

“There’s a proximity limit, Stevie!”

As much as Stevie is a troll, she’s a troll Patrick can keep up with. Her energy calms him down, and by the time he gets the five-minute call he’s feeling much more relaxed.

Sebastien walks out first – well, _swaggers_ is more like it – shooting personable smiles to whoever looks his way, which is pretty much everyone. As much as Patrick doesn’t want to admit it, he looks good in his black suit, with his hair perfectly mussed into a pile of soft cowlicks on top of his head.

From the other door into the studio, David emerges seconds later, his expression hard and focused. He seems uncomfortable again. It’s like this place sets him on edge. Patrick’s undeniably distracted by pre-TV nerves (the butterflies in his stomach remind him of how he felt when he was about to go on stage before his high school theatre productions), but seeing David gives him a very different and much nicer type of distraction. Though his hair and makeup have been done, he looks like he hasn’t let anyone dress him today. He’s wearing a deep red and gold brocade blazer with a soft cream polo neck and sleek black slacks. And, as usual, he’s gorgeous.

Stevie is leaning against her desk from the other side of the studio, staring at Patrick with a smirk.

_(Snack.)_

He looks back at her and winks. If the impending terror of speaking live to hundreds of thousands of people doesn’t kill him off today, then David Rose surely will.

The three men take their seats; Patrick behind his desk, David and Sebastien beside each other on the couch. Sebastien stretches his arms along the backrest and spreads his knees wide. David bunches himself up and leans away as much as he can.

He meets Patrick’s gaze and seems to relax. With a gleam in his eye he mouths, “Good luck.”

Patrick suppresses a grin and mouths back, “You too.”

“Alright, we’re live in three, two…”

Twyla holds up a finger to mark the last second of the countdown, and then the red light switches on.

Patrick swallows. This is it.

“Good morning, I’m Patrick Brewer, coming at you live at nine with Elmdale County News.”

Not a bad start. He supposes the cheesy calling-card intro will come in time.

He flows through the headlines on the cue screen with ease, trying hard not to catch David’s eye. It’s hard to tune out Sebastien’s thoughts, which all sound a bit airy and meaningless while Patrick is concentrating on reading the headlines, but David’s head is peaceful. He’s listening intently to Patrick again, just like he was in the restaurant.

“And this morning, the studio’s joined again by David Rose, this time answering questions alongside his gubernatorial opponent, Sebastien Raine –”

“Thank you, thank you. As someone who cares a _great_ deal about Elmdale County and her constituents, I must say I’m a big fan of this show.”

Patrick’s mouth tightens at the interruption.

_(Did he seriously just call Elmdale ‘her’? Like it’s some kind of pirate ship?)_

He looks at David, and he can tell that they’re both trying very hard not to smirk or roll their eyes.

“Mr. Raine has been striving to make connections with Elmdale as a self-proclaimed businessman and ‘trend originator’ from a middle-class family,” Patrick reads from the pre-written briefs. He wonders if Sebastien had any say in his own brief. “So why now, Sebastien? What about your recent career experiences in particular has drawn you to run for governor?”

Sebastien preens. “My recent ventures outside the province to successful and culturally relevant cities across North America shed new light on this area that, unfortunately, only made it look darker,” he says, furrowing his brow with a simpering amount of faux regret.

_(Sad and tired’s more like it.)_

Patrick tries hard to keep a straight face as he keeps track of what Sebastien’s saying compared with his blunt thoughts. He can’t exactly deny it, though.

“We need to find as many ways as possible to launch this county into the future along with the outside world,” he continues. “Monopolize businesses. Create artistic diversity. Draw in investors and innovators from around the continent to make their foundations here.”

Patrick hums. To be honest, it doesn’t sound that bad.

_(Classist bastard.)_

Patrick looks to David with surprise. This could be interesting.

“And Mr. Rose, what about you?” he says, trying to coax the accusation from David’s thoughts out into his speech. “Is there anything within the area that you’re particularly keen on prioritizing should you be made governor?”

David adjusts the lapels of his blazer and shifts in his seat. “My opponent has an interesting perspective on the growth of this area, but I’m aiming not to run the risk of disenfranchising small vendors and dampening the livelihoods of the already-disadvantaged citizens of our county,” David says. Patrick hears some people in the studio titter, as though they’ve heard this all before. It makes him prickle.

Patrick looks at David and signals him to go on with the tiniest of nods.

“If we position our focus outwards, the area will end up swamped by the demands of the disproportionately prosperous cities of our country,” he continues, and Patrick gets a little more blown away at how articulate he’s being in comparison to all his past interviews. “We have to start by building this place up like a pyramid before we can take out business into the outside world.”

Patrick looks down at the cue cards again for the next question. “Mr. Raine, your opponent seems to think that your move for governor is related to recent financial gains in your favor,” he says. “Will you be obliging David’s demands that you disclose your nonprofit contributions publicly?”

Sebastien keeps his face composed and pleasant, but his thoughts are coming in in a barrage.

_(What the hell does that even mean? I wouldn’t have come here if I knew this was some kind of witch hunt.)_

“The privacy of my nonprofit spending is protected by law,” Sebastien says smoothly. “This is a poor and obvious tactic on David’s part.”

The studio quiets down. Everyone is watching the tension unfold like a car-crash in slow motion.

“Honestly, if I _did_ oblige him, it would only make him look worse,” Sebastien says, and he actually reaches over and pinches David’s cheek. “I don’t think mudslinging is going to help anyone here. My personal expenditures are just as irrelevant to the campaign as, say, Mr. Rose’s photos from college.”

Patrick sees Stevie’s mouth drop open from across the room. David looks at Patrick with wide eyes.

_(Shit. I wish he’d go back to asking about policies or something. Anything.)_

“If that’s the case, then I’d be happy to discuss your plans for local rejuvenation, Mr. Raine,” Patrick says.

“Of course. As I was saying, I believe what this area needs is things people can enjoy and benefit from cultural _and_ business standpoints. Places like _these_ need more hand holding than ever before from the steady backbone of corporations.”

Well, _that’s_ a little condescending.

“While Sebastien makes a good point, I’m concerned that does a disservice to local creators,” David says. “There’s a lot to be said for investing time and money in smaller communities first to make them the best possible version of themselves before you ‘let them free’, so to speak, into the wider nation. Think of it like tea.”

“Like…tea?” Patrick’s trying not to smile. It’s hard not to completely let himself derail into flirty banter – though that would be much more preferable at this point, even if it’s while a hundred thousand people are watching them over their morning eggs.

“Exactly,” David says. “There’s more time invested in the making of the teabag – meaning this area – than anything else. If you make a great blend and keep the bag in the cup, the overall tea - which is the rest of the country - is strengthened and you can draw full benefit from it. If you take the bag out before the tea has finished steeping, then the tea is weaker and the teabag goes straight in the trash.”

Well, damn. If that isn’t the best analogy for local investment that Patrick has ever heard.

Stevie edges closer to the set, making eyes at Patrick and the back of David’s head.

 _(Did he just…_ end _gentrification? I like him. David, I like you.)_

_(Oh shut up, David, you smug little prick.)_

Patrick clenches his jaw at Sebastien’s thoughts.

“Is there anything you can offer to counter that, Sebastien?” Patrick forces out through gritted teeth.

Sebastien plasters on his best shark’s smile and claps David on the shoulder.

“What can I say? I have a honorable opponent,” Sebastien says. He’s really hamming up the whole gracious-winner-or-loser thing.

Patrick turns to the camera. There’s still two minutes to go, but he doesn’t care. “What about that? _Two_ very strong candidates, and they’ll be having their first debate next Tuesday at 8pm, hosted by the Elmdale Community Arts Center. We’ll be covering live and discussing right here in the studio. For now, good morning. And now a word from our sponsors.”

And with that, the interview is over. Twyla flips the lens and the camera crew bustle around, throwing impressed glances at David as they roll up leads and unclip mics. Feeling a little like a high schooler trying to grab a seat next to their crush in morning assembly, Patrick inches closer to David, who’s stood at the edge of the set looking distracted.

“I think that’s the most I’ve ever heard you speak,” he says softly, as not to startle David.

David turns around and his mouth twists into its gorgeous little smile. “What can I say? You bring out the best in me.”

“I have to say, I’m not the biggest fan of this Elm Vegas-sounding place Sebastien is envisioning,” Patrick says, dropping his voice.

David rolls his eyes. “Tell me about it. At least _you_ don’t have to go to this dumb campaign ball we have to throw –”

“Campaign ball? I think my ears may be burning, David.”

Before Patrick can see who’s approached them, he feels Sebastien’s hand come down onto the side of his face. He’s looking at him like he’s some kind of lost puppy.

“I –”

“No, thank _you,_ Mr. Brewer, for being such a marvellous host. I’d be happy to return to your show any day.”

 _(Look at him, he’s practically drooling over you. He_ is.)

The way Sebastien thinks is unlike anyone Patrick’s heard before. It’s like he’s trying to force himself to change the way people present themselves, whittling them down until they’re nothing but a malleable lump he can play with.

“I must say, none of those other reporters have quite the insight or finesse that you do,” Sebastien says, the words dripping from his tongue like syrup. “And you’re a _junior reporter_ as well? You just keep getting more impressive.”

Damn, it’s hard not to curl up under the warmth of the praise, as false as it may be. Patrick can understand what everyone sees in him.

David stands there, half amused, half pissed. He desperately looks like he’s waiting for it to finish.

“I’ll tell you what, I have a proposition,” Sebastien says. “I’d love to see you at the campaign ball to explore what I hope is the beginning of a beautiful professional relationship. Bring whoever you’d like.” Sebastien takes his business card out of his breast pocket and shoves it between Patrick’s fingers.

“It was lovely to meet you,” he calls as he walks away.

Patrick feels nailed to the spot. He’s never met anyone so…so…

_(Audacious. Sanctimonious. Holier-than-thou.)_

Patrick fills in the silence with the exact words he heard in David’s head. David nods, his mouth open in a stunned smile.

“My thoughts _exactly.”_

“He’s an ass,” Patrick says. “Oh my God, he’s _such_ an ass.”

“Want to grab lunch? I feel like there’s a lot to unpack before this ball,” David says.

Patrick wants to so much that it aches, but he looks around the studio consciously and sees people looking at them. “I don’t want people to think I’m taking sides,” he says regretfully.

_(Take me as well! Sorry for stepping on your date, but I want to get to know this guy.)_

Stevie’s still leaning against the desk, eyeing them as they talk.

“Hey, d’you mind if my friend Stevie comes as well? Don’t worry, she’s not ensnared by Sebastien like everyone else.”

David nods, throwing a polite wave towards Stevie. She closes the distance between them and they introduce themselves, then all three start to make their way towards the door.

“You know he calls it the Rainecloud? All his supporters,” Stevie says. “I saw it on an online forum.”

“I’m guessing he owns all the accounts and spends the day talking about himself,” Patrick adds.

David laughs, and Patrick feels him visibly relax between them.

_(Okay, this is better. This is good. You have people now, David. You’re gonna be okay.)_

Patrick looks up at David and smiles. As weird as this small, sleazy campaign is going to be, he’d weather it ten times over if it meant he got to put that look on David’s face.


	5. Mind Games

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- So, the slow burn got faster than I expected!! I didn't want to wait any longer, lol. Hope you enjoy this chapter :)

_(Patrick Something Brewer, if you pull out another blue shirt, I’m going to steal your entire wardrobe and use it as winter fuel.)_

Patrick spins around on the spot to where Stevie sits cross-legged on his bed, the space between them now filled with discarded clothing.

“First of all, it’s _Joseph,_ and secondly, you’re not helping me.”

“You’re not helping yourself!”

“It’s hard to choose!” Patrick says, rummaging through the remaining clothing in his drawers. “What if there’s a – a dress code, like ‘you have to have 30cm between your coat lapels’? ‘Your hair must be this high to ride’?”

“I could keep riling you up, but I can see how distressed you are right now. Just relax, and enjoy yourself.”

Patrick sighs. Ever since Sebastien’s impromptu invitation, he’s been worrying about the campaign ball more than anything else. He’s had more and more work to distract him – including a very interesting piece from Elm Glen with a man who thought he saw Jesus in the bruise his drunk father-in-law gave him – but in the evenings he was plagued by the idea that he was starting to become a someone in this county, and it bothered him, especially when he’d come here to have some peace of mind.

 _(I bet if I could hear your_ _thoughts right now, you’d be whining about how you don’t want to get too well-known around here or something, because it’s not really your style.)_

Patrick laughs. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

“Well, I love to break it to you that this is quite literally the smallest place in the world. Your new-found celebrity status means diddly-squat outside of it,” Stevie says, getting up off the bed and folding up some of the shirts on the floor. “So have you thought about how you’re going to grill Sebastien when you’re there?”

“Would be nice to try and dig deeper, but I’ve been researching him and he’s basically golden,” Patrick says.

Stevie frowns. “Well, it didn’t made headlines this week, but his company recently bought the wetland park that Twyla volunteers at. It’s meant to be reserved, but he wants to build offices. Sebastien says it’s too overgrown to benefit the ‘visionary endeavors of the community’, but it’s still home to lots of wildlife.”

“Huh, interesting. I didn’t hear about that.”

“Apart from that, it’s hard to find anything because, unfortunately, he’s a genuinely good politician.”

Patrick nods. He finally picks a deep purple shirt from the back of his drawer and holds it up for Stevie’s approval.

_(Yes. Good. I like that a lot.)_

“Could be worse,” she says nonchalantly.

“You know I just heard your much more enthusiastic thoughts, right?”

“Ugh, I need to stop forgetting about that!” She lightly punches him on the arm. He returns the favor. “You’ll look great. And for what it’s worth, I’m really proud of you.”

Patrick smiles. “Thanks. Me too.”

“I should go, I’m having drinks with…a person. Tonight. Stay objective, don’t overstep and tell David he owes me a shot from last week.”

“Will do.”

Stevie takes her bag and leaves. After getting changed, Patrick takes one last look in the mirror and steels himself with a deep breath.

_Ready as I’ll ever be, I guess._

****

As soon as Patrick pulls up to the campaign ball venue, his phone buzzes with a text from Ronnie.

**Ronnie Lee [sent 8:57pm]**

Evening. Just dropping a note to say good luck. Get me something I can run and ECN might need two lead anchors, huh?

Patrick rolls his eyes and shoves his phone back into his pocket. He’s not in the mood to start anything tonight.

The foyer is decked out beautifully with string lights and glittering trays of champagne. Patrick heads his way inside slowly, weaving round all the business CEOs and mayors and D-list actors who live nearby, his feet cushioned by a plush red carpet. Thoughts of all kinds buzz around the room, unexpectedly connecting the most confident of speakers with anxious tirades about their self-worth and the most enthusiastic friends with scathing internal comments that they’ll never vocalize. He circles through the crowd, trying desperately to search for a familiar face. He spots a man with a dark updo facing away from him, and tries to stave away the giddy twist in his stomach as he taps him on the shoulder.

“Oh, thank God, I thought I was gonna get lost in this crowd of snobs!”

The man turns around.

“Ex _cuse_ me?”

Oh, shit. Patrick stands frozen, stammering, until someone calls the man’s name, and he stalks off.

 _(Okay. Just walk over to him. That’s_ definitely _him this time. Don’t go pulling random people away from the crowd again.)_

Before Patrick can even register the familiar voice, an arm is hooking through his own and pulling him to the side of the room.

“Hey, look who I found,” David says. “I wasn’t going to admit this, but I just saw you do the exact same thing, so I don’t care. I tried that on _two_ different people and neither of them were you.”

Patrick breathes a sigh of relief. “David! I can honestly say I have never been happier to see anyone in my entire life.”

David’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Oh, is that so?”

_(Fuck. Um – how do I even respond to that?)_

Patrick feels his ears redden, trying to amend his honest outburst, but he’s distracted by David scanning him up and down.

“Damn. Now I wish _I’d_ dressed up.”

Patrick thinks for a moment that David might be joking given the suit he’s wearing – the same one he wore to Moira’s interview – then he realizes that David probably doesn’t have anything less than smart casual in his wardrobe.

Patrick puts a hand to the back of his neck, smiling sheepishly. “I don’t wanna be all ‘this old thing’ on you, but…it is literally just something I had clean.”

_(Could’ve fooled me.)_

“So, are you enjoying this little soiree so far?” David says.

“I wish,” Patrick says. “I have a feeling I’m the most irrelevant person here, and my boss sent me a text hinting at a promotion if I find something newsworthy, which I really can’t be bothered to do. Kind of threw off my carefree vibe.”

David looks thoughtful, staring into the middle distance of the crowd for a moment before sticking out a hand. “Hm. If you’re looking for a good interview or a story, I’d try Klair Staines over there. She’s the CEO of a PR agency that she named after herself, so she speaks solely in money.”

Patrick focuses his gaze on Klair, standing with two people whom her wide-brimmed hat partially obscures.

“Cote d’Azur is so _crowded_ this time of year, but it beats the alternative,” she’s drawling, twirling her hair in perfect synchronicity with the bobbing heads of her friends.

“Oh, I stopped bothering with the hassle of vacationing after I bought my first island,” one of them responds.

Patrick recognizes the one who just spoke with a jolt of embarrassment. “Oh, I actually just had the pleasure of humiliating myself in front of one of Klair’s friends,” he says. “Hard pass.”

David rolls his eyes, and Patrick pretends there’s fondness there, too. It’s surprisingly easy.

“Come on, I’ve dealt with these people my whole life,” David says. “They might be rich, but they don’t bite normal people. Unless they’re checking to see if you’re real gold.”

Patrick heaves a sigh, but allows David to lead him back over to the group, chatting about them with a hint of disdain in his voice that Patrick kind of wants him to elaborate on when he isn’t on company time.

“Albany is the heir of a legal firm and Canyon is to blame for that stupid little e-marketplace that basically wrecked all the stores in Elm Glen,” David says. “I wouldn’t bring that up, because he genuinely does not register anything but compliments.”

Patrick smirks up at David. “Noted.”

David looks in his element here, as though he’s spent some years reconciling his past as a cold, dependent socialite with someone who finally reached out to grasp what he really wanted. At least in Patrick’s eyes, David commands the room; there’s an air about him as though he’s meeting everyone for the first time in a long time, twirling and glittering like the human form of that ‘surprise, bitch’ meme. He’s glad Stevie isn’t here. He wouldn’t be able to handle the energy of this room accompanied by her constant thoughts of _simp, simp, simp!_

The feel of David’s hand on his lower back startles Patrick out of his reverie. He almost leans into it before he realizes it was merely to introduce him to the group.

“Patrick Brewer is a reporter at Elmdale County News,” David says. “I’m sure you’ve all seen him recently.”

“Oh, I _knew_ I recognized you!” Albany says. “That video of you busting drugs in Schitt’s Creek has been shared, like, a thousand times on loads of weird Reddit forums.”

“Uh…”

“Isn’t this the guy who Sebastien talked about the other day? Said it was the best interview he’d ever had or something,” Klair says, not looking up from her phone.

_(Wait, Sebastien said that? Did they talk later in the day? Is he trying to get Patrick in on something here?)_

Patrick shrugs. He wants to address David’s nervous thoughts, but that would be impossible without derailing the conversation until he talks himself into a hole. “Just doing my job,” he mutters.

Speaking of doing jobs, Patrick fumbles for the notepad in his pocket before they start asking him who sewed his shirt for him or something. Even if they’re just a tiny bit insufferable, Patrick could at least kill time tonight doing what he likes best.

“So, what other projects are in the works for you guys? Anything big planned for Elmdale County in the next couple of months?”

Klair leans in conspiratorially. “Well, I have something, but I can’t tell you about it.”

She immediately proceeds to tell him anyway. Patrick feigns interest and nods along to Klair’s plans for some local celebrity’s new line of purses, then Canyon holds up a hand.

“My turn. I just ordered five hundred outdoor regeneration pods for Elmdale College’s student center,” he says airily. “You’re meant to slip yourself inside them and rest for between half an hour to half a day while they clear your sinuses and feed positive affirmations into your brain like…osmosis or something.”

“O…kay. Well, that certainly sounds interesting. Five hundred pods sounds like a lot, do you have a good location for it on campus?”

Canyon tuts. “I’m not settling for anything less than perfect. There are a lot of promising spots, but every acquisition has its challenges. Unless, you know, you’re my older brother, who basically got all my inheritance.”

_(That field on the other side of the campus would have been perfect if all those eco-activists didn’t threaten to throw their toys out the pram. We don’t need bad publicity.)_

Patrick thinks back to the conversation he’d had with Stevie about Sebastien buying out the wetland park.

“It’s funny you should mention recent buy ups, you know,” Patrick says, scribbling on his notepad in shorthand. “I was considering discussing the park acquisition with Sebastien Raine tonight.”

David stiffens beside him. “What park? I didn’t know about that.”

“Well, it’s –”

“I wouldn’t let _David_ know, he’d probably try and submit a lease application for the place himself,” Klair spits.

“Um, what’s _that_ supposed to mean?” David says, his face morphing into something closed-off and defensive and, Patrick notes with a twinge of sadness, achingly familiar. He pictures a younger Klair and Albany and Canyon throwing things at David in the classroom or tripping him in the hallway. Patrick starts to fume silently as they stare each other down.

Klair points at the gap in between David’s eyebrows and leans into Albany. “Look, he still gets that little crease in his face when you’ve really upset him. Are you upset, David?”

“If you must know, _he_ was the one who followed _me_ back from New York. I don’t see why he would want that park anyway. The ground is basically quicksand,” David snaps.

_(Patrick would probably do his job better if I weren’t here. He can find me later.)_

“I don’t have time for this,” David says, and stalks off before Patrick can even suggest a meeting spot for later.

He turns back around to find the three looking suitably satisfied, as though they’d just scratched a well-worn, high school itch. Looking down at his notepad, he sees he’s only jotted down some fluffy scraps of story and nowhere near enough to make Ronnie happy (well, mildly satisfied). He can either find David and satiate his growing need to talk to him more personally, or stay here without making himself look biased towards a candidate. Idly, he writes ‘rock and a hard place’ on his notepad, then jerks himself awake and looks up at the group with the same false intrigue once again.

_All you need is one little story, then you can go –_

But none of them are looking anymore. Klair has been sucked back into her phone and Canyon looks like he’s practicing some sort of signature introductory smoulder with his eyebrows into a compact mirror. Before they can request that he asks them more questions about their vapid business ventures, Patrick backs away to look for David in the crowd. He could have sworn he’d seen him going up the stairs, so he clambers up them two at a time, almost tripping himself up in anticipation.

The corridors above the foyer are long, and soon Patrick finds himself lost in a maze of swirly beige carpets and solitary tables with unflattering flowered vases sat atop them. He rounds corners and pokes his head into rooms for what feels like a solid ten minutes until he finally bumps into a tall figure at the end of the very last corridor.

“Oof! Sorry for bumping you there. I’ve been looking for you for ages.”

“Ah, Patrick. So nice to see you again. I have to say I was worried I wouldn’t see you here tonight.”

Shit.

Patrick looks up to see Sebastien’s large hands, ready to take his face in an unsolicited grasp, and his false, saccharine smile.

“Sebastien, uh…it’s good to see you again too. Thanks again for inviting me,” Patrick says, hoping that that was it.

“And you couldn’t look more incredible. I’m _speechless,”_ Sebastien drawls, raking his eyes down Patrick’s outfit with a look that Patrick much prefers on David’s features. “Are you enjoying yourself so far? I must say, a pretty incredible slate of my supporters have shown up. I almost wish they hadn’t, so I could tune in with my own interpretation of the events with an unobtrusive perspective.”

Patrick’s still wrapping his head round whatever the fuck that nonsense means when Sebastien takes him by the shoulders and leads him back down the corridor.

_(Look at him, he’s starstruck. I wonder if he’s been asking any big questions, the underpaid little thing.)_

That one pricks more than he expected. Well, now that he thinks about it, it pricks _exactly_ as he expected. Before he has time to think about it, he’s blurting the question out.

“Actually, Mr. Raine, I wanted to ask about your campaign’s plans to redevelop the wetland park in Elmdale.”

_(Wait – what? Where did he hear about that?)_

“Certainly, Patrick,” he says breezily.

“I don’t – I’m not…see, I’m not bringing this up as a reporter, I’m bringing it up because I could be your future constituent,” he says, thinking about all the environmental things Twyla volunteers for and everyone who’d be affected by the change to the area. “And to be honest…I don’t think many people will agree with your plans. Do you think you might reconsider?”

“Really? Why would I do that?”

“Because…” he tries to think of something to appeal to Sebastien’s nature, and decides the best way about it is to talk utter shit. “Think about how the environment around you and how it impacted your long-term aesthetic vision during your formative years. Do you think you’d like for the future youth of this county to have that same experience?”

Sebastien looks, for the first time, like he’s actually thinking. “You know, now I think about it, that place was a crucial cornerstone in the foundation of my personal anagnorises,” he muses. “And I suppose…wow, I suppose I _do_ have people to think of. You make a compelling case.”

Patrick doesn’t say anything. He’s still trying to spell ‘anagnorises’ in his head. Sebastien stops them suddenly and turns Patrick around so that he’s facing Sebastien head-on again, and Patrick wants nothing more than to wrench himself away.

“You know, there are so many reporters out there who simply _look_ for stories, not caring a minute for the world around them as they use their locale like stepping-stones,” Sebastien says.

 _Kind of like you, then,_ Patrick thinks.

“But _you?”_ Sebastien leans in, brushing a thumb through Patrick’s hairline. “I like you. You really see things, Patrick.”

 _(What are they doing? What is_ Patrick _doing?)_

Wait. That’s not Sebastien’s voice. Patrick manages to lean out of Sebastien’s grip quick enough to turn around, where David is stood at the end of the corridor, the look on his face betraying nothing of the frenzied thoughts in his head.

_(Surely they weren’t – no, he wouldn’t – I shouldn’t have –)_

“Good to see you again, Patrick, I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” David says nonchalantly. He doesn’t acknowledge Sebastien.

“David!” Patrick enthuses, perhaps a little too loudly, but he doesn’t care. He just wants to get out of this dumb party full of the sacks of air it calls guests. “I’ve been meaning to find you for – reasons. I needed to talk to you. About stuff. We should do that now.”

_(Thank fuck.)_

Patrick ignores the little fizzle of giddiness he feels when he hears how relieved David is now, and makes his way down the corridor to join him without so much as a goodbye to Sebastien.

“So, you had something to say to me, huh?” David says as they skirt down the staircase with equal speediness.

“No. Well, I have plenty of things to say to you, but I need to get myself out of this place first.”

“Mm. We really need to stop meeting like this.”

Patrick stills at the bottom of the stairs. “L-like what?”

“Professionally,” David says, the crease of his eyelid twitching minutely over his right eye. Patrick likes to think of it as a wink. He’s going to think of it as a wink. Then, David holds out his hand.

_Fuck. Am I meant to take that?_

_(Why did you hold out your hand? It’s not like he’s gonna take it.)_

Patrick takes it.

David’s eyes freeze on him for a second before he breaks out into a smile. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

They weave through the throng of people, and Patrick feels their only means of connection growing clammier by the second. He can feel the pulse of blood in David’s large, soft hand, and it only makes his own grow sweatier and more unsure of itself. He hopes it doesn’t show, but he doesn’t make any effort to wrench his hand away as soon as they step out onto the balcony, gazing at the humble skyline of city and stars. He lets go slowly, thinking his actions through far more carefully than is probably proportionate for such a small action.

“So, I take it you’re done schmoozing it up in there as well?” Patrick says. David scoffs at him.

“Yeah, I feel like I was done with that yesterday. Half the people in that room bullied me in high school, and the other half are their moms.”

“Hm. So you’re just about as ready to blow this place as I am.”

“Yup. Definitely intent on blowing tonight. And that’s a – that’s a thing that I just…said to you.”

Patrick watches David redden slightly and feels a rush of warmth for him. It happens again, that strange thing where his thoughts sound just like David’s. Only this time it makes him much hotter under the collar, hearing those kinds of things in David’s voice.

“Um, there’s somewhere I always used to like going on nights like these, after I’d snuck away from my parent’s parties,” David says quickly, clearing his throat. “Do you – do you wanna come along?”

“Are you at least gonna tell me where?” Patrick says, but he’s already walking. God _dammit,_ he’s already walking because at this point he would literally follow David into a bog.

He lets David lead the trail in his car, with Patrick driving nervously behind him. He almost wishes he’d gotten himself a lift here for the excuse to sit beside David. The busier area of the city clears out and they’re once again on the edges, just like the other day at the restaurant, only this time they’re on the other side of Elmdale. Thick pines line the road for the last few hundred yards and suddenly they’re by the edge of the huge lake that sources all the surrounding rivers and creeks of the county. David parks his car with a practiced ease and climbs out, Patrick hot on his heels and suddenly very aware of their uncomfortable, dressy outfits.

“You know, I’m gonna start assuming you’ve led me out here to murder me,” Patrick calls.

In front of him, David laughs. God, it’s a beautiful thing. “Can’t lie, I was thinking about it for a minute when I saw those shoes, but I decided to let you off. This time.”

“Wha–? What’s wrong with my shoes?”

“They’re visually offensive! All long and pointy, then squared off at the top!”

Patrick looks down. He supposes they _are_ a bit odd.

David clambers behind a thicket, apparently looking for something. Patrick cranes his neck to look out for him, and he has his follow-up joke about David looking for an axe right on the tip of his tongue when David cries out triumphantly.

“Yes, found it! Hang on a second – look to the left –”

Patrick directs his gaze towards the pier, then a second later he hears the plastic rustle of wires and a plug click. The pier lights up with small, compact lanterns right to the end, glinting like golden cat’s eyes and bathing the cool black water in a shimmering warmth that makes Patrick want to jump right in. It’s not quite cold yet. He wonders what David has planned.

He needn’t wonder for much longer, however, because David is popping open the trunk of the car and pulling out an unopened bottle of red wine, two plastic cups and an entire quiche.

“You wanna explain the quiche, David?”

“Party leftovers,” he says mischievously. “Well, more like party not-touched-yets. I also have two mini banoffee pies. And I saw Klair bring this wine, so I decided to swipe it. Consider it payment for all the times she flushed my hands down the toilet at school.”

_(I hope this doesn’t look like I thought it through as much as I did.)_

Patrick takes hold of the quiche and pies and carries them to the edge of the pier, where David sheds his jacket and sits atop it. Patrick watches him with guarded surprise.

“Uh…no offence, but you don’t strike me as the kind of person who would agree with using items of clothing as temporary seating,” Patrick says.

David looks at him blankly for a moment before catching on. “Oh, this? I mean, you’re absolutely right, it’s incorrect on so many levels. But these aren’t actually my clothes. Well, not really. They’re things my parents have bought for me over the years, and I figured they’d probably serve me better in this campaign than any of the things I’d much rather be wearing.”

“You’d probably feel much more comfortable being true to yourself, David,” Patrick says, and it comes out more earnestly than he intends it. He cringes at himself as David rolls his eyes.

“Listen to you, ever the yes-man reporter,” David says amusedly. His thoughts feel worried, though. Like he’s guarding himself, as though Patrick doesn’t mean any of it.

“I mean it,” Patrick adds. “Anyway, I thought we had a strictly no-professional policy tonight?”

_(Fuck, he’s doing it again. He’s literally being nice for no reason.)_

“We did,” David says, light and life twinkling in his eyes.

They finish their meal of stolen rich person food and Patrick drinks until he feels that pleasant, silvery buzz in his throat. It was a buzz that, in college, always gave him the desire to kiss, but he could never work out who he wanted to do it with.

David shuffles to the edge of the pier and rolls up his trousers, dipping his feet into the silky water.

“I used to come and sit here for hours after my family had docked our little boat and gone home,” David says quietly. “Sometimes it was nice to watch the kids from the public school chilling out here and pretend I was one of them. They never bothered me.”

Patrick joins his side, copying his position. The water is surprisingly warm, only occasionally brushing the toes and undersides of his feet with flashes of cold that pass as quick and soft as the breeze.

“You know, I used to do the same,” Patrick said. “Maybe not quite with the boat and the pretending to be in public school, because I actually was in public school, I guess, but it was more to do with the other people I saw that –”

_(Oh my God, spit it out.)_

“The queer kids,” Patrick says before he could even think it through. David looks at him curiously.

“When I was in high school, the people who would hang out at the local lake and the park next to it were this one group of friends who were all queer,” Patrick continues. “They would come and splash in the lake or lounge on the grass and play music and kiss their partners and I would sort of sit on the edge of it all with my feet in the water like this, wondering why I was watching them.”

_(…)_

Fuck, David’s a good listener. Patrick blinks and swallows, then keeps going.

“I always half-wondered why I was there and why I’d watch them, but I guess I just told myself I wanted the peace and quiet. Then I’d get a text from my mom or my girlfriend asking where I was and I’d run back. I’d always run back.”

_(Do it.)_

Patrick breaks off his speech to focus on David’s thoughts. He doesn’t say anything for a while, waiting for more of this weird narrative to unfold, but it’s all the same.

_(Do it now. Just do it. Three, two, one –)_

Then…

SPLASH.

Patrick barely has time to register what’s happened until he’s completely submerged in the water, which is much colder from this proximity. A muted _plunk_ and a rush of bubbles tells him that David has jumped in, too.

After what seems like hours Patrick emerges, coughing and spluttering.

“David! You – what – you pushed me in!”

David shrugs as he treads water, a brilliant smile breaking out through the sheen of water that’s filming and dripping from his face.

“You said you wanted to splash in the lake like them? Well, here we are.”

Patrick tries to make himself look as annoyed as possible, but it’s incredibly difficult when David is starting to unbutton his shirt in the water, muttering about the likelihood of drowning and irreversible damage to French double cuff shirts. Instead, he opts to push a generous wave of water towards David with the heels of his palms, relishing in the look of pure insult sketched onto David’s features that’s caught so beautifully in the yellow lights of the pier.

“I’m pretty sure that’s what the kids do, isn’t it?” Patrick retorts. “Shove water at each other?”

“Oh you think? You know, I think on one or two occasions I saw them do _this –”_ and David reaches over, dunking Patrick’s head under the water with a deceptive amount of upper body strength that Patrick makes sure to remember for a later date.

Soon, they’re caught in a brutal, untiring playfight in the water, and Patrick thinks he might be seeing a side of David Rose to which no one in the world has ever been privy before. He thinks David might be seeing that same side of him, too. By the time David has his elbow hooked around Patrick’s neck, his smile once again radiant and rivalling the stars, Patrick realises his own shirt is fully unbuttoned. Without thinking – but, at the same time, thinking a great deal – Patrick guides David’s other hand underneath the shirt that’s billowing with the current they’ve created in the water, placing David’s palm directly on his bare waist. The humor immediately drains out of David’s face and Patrick panics for a moment, thinking he’s made the wrong decision, until it’s replaced by something much darker and warmer.

The strange litany starts up again in David’s head.

_(Do it. Do it. Do it.)_

And this time Patrick thinks he might know what he means, so he beats him to it.

If the water was cold before, then, well…no it wasn’t. As David reciprocates, kissing him hungrily, openly, brushing the water from his face and squeezing it from his hair with a searching grip, Patrick wonders if he’s ever felt this warm in his life. He snakes his arms around David waist and slips his tongue over David’s lower lip, which only prompts him to kiss Patrick longer, deeper.

Patrick’s never heard this kind of thought from David or anyone else before. It’s like a long, drawn-out sigh that reminds him of sitting down after an overrunning game of baseball; it reminds him of seeing home in the distance when he drives home for Christmas. It pains him to do it, but he breaks away before it gets too real.

They stare at each other for a while, before the ridiculousness of it all sets in and they’re both laughing into each other’s necks, pressing kisses there as gently as they dare before the water really does start to feel cold and they have to pull themselves back up onto the pier, stopping to collect the wine glasses and jacket and empty aluminium pie cases before they walk leisurely back to their cars.

“So, uh…the journey home is gonna be uncomfortable,” Patrick jokes, plucking at his wet trousers. He hopes David’s eyes don’t catch sight of the _other_ reason it’s going to be uncomfortable.

David smiles at him warmly. “Well, I for one regretted it instantly, and will probably be sending you my dry cleaning bill in the morning.”

Patrick huffs out a small laugh. They look at each other over the roofs of their cars for a moment, both still dripping wet and freezing and alive.

“Yeah, uh…speaking of the morning. Can we talk tomorrow?”

David nods twice slowly, suppressing what Patrick is sure would have been a beautiful smile. “We can talk whenever you’d like.”

_(Please. Never stop talking to me.)_

Patrick smiles at him once more before unlocking his car. “Goodnight, David.”

“Goodnight, Patrick.”

He sits in his car for a moment, switching on the heating to dry off as he watches David pull out of the leafy car park and head back down the road. As soon as the car passes out of sight, he turns his own key and sets off back into the night.


	6. Bright Idea

In the twice-a-week absence of the earliest slot of the morning news, Patrick, Stevie and Twyla are always able to enjoy brunch for longer in the cafe adjoining the news station. Patrick’s sat opposite the two of them, glowering at the expectant looks on their faces as he nurses a strong ginger and matcha tea. The strength of that wine only really hit him after he’d got home last night, and as soon as he stepped out of the car he immediately stumbled into his flat, almost knocking over Ray and his midnight card-stacking venture as he made his unsteady way to bed.

“So, Mr. Brewer, I can see last night took a toll on you,” Stevie says. _(He’s hiding something. Something happened last night.)_ “I’m assuming you’re exhausted from all that…enjoying yourself?”

“I guess you could say that, yeah,” Patrick says.

_(Nod if it’s David.)_

Patrick surreptitiously lowers his head to his mug and back up again, and he’s torn between Stevie’s wide-eyed, ‘O’-mouthed expression and Twyla looking down at her phone with delight.

“I just got a text from another volunteer at the wetland park,” Twyla says. “He says Sebastien is reconsidering the development project! Apparently, he wants to change it into a nature reserve instead? It’s perfect!”

_(Maybe Sebastien isn’t as bad as Stevie says. He’s someone I could get behind.)_

Patrick makes an attempt to veer the conversation into Twyla’s thoughts, but he’s distracted by a barrage of Stevie’s instead.

_(Okay, we are absolutely going to revisit whatever happened with David in as many details as I can pry out of you, but I’m also kind of worried about his campaign right now. Sebastien really knows what the people want.)_

Patrick raises an eyebrow at her and drains his tea. Twyla is still buzzing beside them both, throwing out random thoughts about squirrels and walking boots and taking Stevie to the nature reserve.

They finish up their brunch and head next door to start their shift, with Patrick slightly stalling at the prospect of pissing Ronnie off with his lack of a story. He’s making his way towards the set when Alexis spots him, waving him over with a flap of the hand.

“Heyyy! How was the big bash?” she says, shimmying her shoulders in a way that makes Patrick think David’s already told her exactly how it was, second for second.

“Yeah, um – about that. D’you think you could maybe…not let it slip that that happened?” Patrick whispers, ducking his head towards Alexis.

“That what happened?” she says innocently. Then she winks. “Listen, it’s totes not a big deal, like, _mixing_ with people to get ahead. When I was in London in 2011, I totally photobombed all the official royal wedding pictures and I had people calling me Eugenie for weeks. You go get ‘em, tiger.”

“Oh, that’s not why I –”

“Look alive, people!” Ronnie calls into the dormant office, clapping her hands. “If I see so much as one person not fully engaged in work, I will personally escort you to the unemployment office.”

Alexis bares her teeth in a grimace. “Eugh, Ronnie’s in a bad mood today. One of our guests cancelled on us last minute, and she didn’t _want_ to put you on air over Moira for a second time in a week, but it’s looking like you’ll have to jump in again.”

“Right. So much for keeping my head down toda–”

Patrick’s cut off by the studio going completely black, an apparent power outage plummeting everything and everyone into a deep, blinding darkness. He hears stray panicked thoughts amid the noise of objects being knocked over and people screaming.

“What’s going on?”

_(No, not like this, I don’t wanna die at work!)_

As his eyes adjust to the dark, Patrick scans the room for the cause of the outage, but sees nothing at all. He hears Alexis’ heels clicking tentatively across the floor as she searches for answers.

“What’s going on? More importantly, which of you imbeciles is to blame for this?” Ronnie fumes.

“It seems to be out of our control, Ms. Lee,” Patrick says, as pinpricks of light from people’s phones start to give a bit more clarity to the room.

“I’m tired of your smart mouth, Brewer. Keep your snark to yourself.”

“But I –”

“Alexis, call whatever technician is closest. We can’t afford to grind to a halt in the middle of the day.”

“Wait, I know someone!” Stevie says, shuffling across the office floor towards Ronnie. She picks up her phone and springs into an explanation, talking about some kind of favor from months ago. Within the half hour, a muscular, plaid-clad figure strides into the studio, a flashlight clamped between his teeth.

“Seriously, Stevie?” Patrick hisses, getting some unwanted flashbacks of grimy bar bathrooms and awkward phone calls for the next week and a half after. “Why did you have to get _Jake_ to do it?”

Stevie gestures as if daring Patrick to give her a better alternative. “He said I could use his number whenever I wanted! That’s probably not what he _meant,_ but it’s the best I had.”

“Good to see you to again,” Jake says calmly. Stevie manages to lean out the way of one of his greeting kisses, but Patrick’s not so quick.

“Oh, we’re – we’re still doing that, huh.”

He flushes with surprised embarrassment as Jake walks away, letting Alexis lead him down to the mains in the basement. Patrick leans against the desk as they wait for the power to return, while Ronnie rushes around trying to convince everyone to get back to work.

Then Jake’s name lights up on Stevie’s phone, presumably texting her from the basement.

**Jake [11:04 am]**

Odd.

Stevie shows Patrick the text and he leans in.

**Me [11.04 am]**

What’s odd?

**Jake [11.06 am]**

This circuit box is kinda suspicious. It’s not overloaded, which would’ve been an easy fix. The entire thing has been flipped off, and a couple of the wires are clipped. Also, I’m around if you want to grab a whiskey at mine tonight. Feel free to bring your friend.

Ignoring the last part of the message, Patrick looks at Stevie cautiously.

“D’you think I should go and tell Ronnie about this?” he says.

Stevie shrugs. “S’ your funeral. She’s cranky today, so she’ll probably find a way to turn it on you.”

“I mean, if someone’s tampering with the studio, she’ll want to know about it, right? I can’t help being the messenger.”

Patrick looks around for Ronnie and then, unable to find her, skates his way up the steps to her office. He pokes his head inside and is about to duck out again when he sees no one there, but he’s stopped by a faint, papery scrabbling sound.

_(…running out of time…)_

Squinting, Patrick steps deeper into the office. Someone is in here. They’re being quiet, but their thoughts are pretty loud.

“Ronnie – uh, Ms. Lee? Hello?”

_(Patrick! Oh, that fussy little fucker.)_

“Mrs. Rose? What are you doing here?”

Patrick jumps at the sight of Moira’s silhouette, somehow even more gothic and frightening in the dark. Clad in a Giambattista Valli jacket with a spiked white wig standing on end, she looks like a lithe, monochromatic gazelle caught in the deadshot of a hunter.

“Should – should you be in here without Ronnie…?” Patrick falters, just saying it for the purpose of something to say because it’s so rare that Moira’s baffling syntax is not dominating the room.

_(Fuck. Fuck!)_

“I’ll have you know that Ronnie send me here to seek out her mobile telephone,” Moira says, though her voice is wavering. “I don’t appreciate that assumptive tone.”

“Hm. Okay. So where _is_ Ronnie?” Patrick says, trying his hardest to make himself sound in disbelief without crossing any unnecessary boundaries of accusation.

_(No wonder they’re touting this little whippersnapper to be my successor. He really does have a talent for sussing things out.)_

Patrick forces his face to remain composed and struggles to stay on topic. He desperately wants to ask Moira about the electricity, but these days things are seeming more and more impossible to carry out without using his power.

“So, did you try calling Ronnie’s phone?”

_(Cornered again, Moira.)_

“Well, in spite of being her clear favorite, I don’t have her personal line, so no.”

Patrick sighs irritably, thinking about how he was about to be thrown onto air last minute before the lights went out. So there's one motive, and then there's also...whatever this is.

“You know, Moira, I think you know why we really lost power.”

“And I find your unwarranted accusations to be egregious and offensive!” Moira cries.

Just then, the lights flicker on above them. Patrick catches a proper look at Moira’s face, dashed with panic and guilt, before she hurries out of the room.

The sounds of restarting computers and relieved chatter start to circulate around the building. Patrick gets himself out of Ronnie’s office, plasters himself against the wall and pulls up Stevie’s contact.

**Me [11:22 am]**

Moira cut the wires

I could hear her thinking about it

**Stevie [11:23 am]**

holy shit what

r u going to tell Ronnie??

**Me [11:23 am]**

I’m not sure I can. I don’t have any hard proof

**Stevie [11:25 am]**

Hmmmm okay fair enough

but getting caught has probably left her kind of rattled

she might be more inclined to let smthn slip (in her head)

**Me [11:26 am]**

You’re right

Gonna go and find her, will update soon

Patrick heads down the hall and sees Moira moving towards the elevator. She tries the button, but the elevator doesn’t appear to be operational yet. She veers away from it and into a random room, and Patrick follows behind her as quickly and quietly as he can. Wedging his foot in the door after her, he watches Moira slink between cameras and clothing racks, hurrying to another door on the other side of the room.

_(Chin up, Moira Rose. At least you found what you were looking for.)_

Patrick stations himself behind a bulky garment bag, completely covered from view as Moira’s thoughts continue uninterrupted.

_(It’s hardly the first time I’ve stolen from the office, that is if Ronnie still has no idea who’s taking her sparkling waters.)_

Moira stalks through the doorway and down a flight of backstairs. He pursues, determined to hear as much as he can, when the buzzing of his phone in his pocket almost makes him shout out in surprise.

**David Rose [11:31 am]**

I had a really good time last night. xx

Well, how on earth is he supposed to respond to that right now? _Thanks, me too – gotta go, I’m hunting down your mom and spying on her internal monologue!_

With a tug of regret, Patrick pockets his phone, planning on revisiting that as soon as this is done.

_(It’s like I told John the other night, I simply couldn’t wait any longer.)_

Patrick is still wondering what that could possibly mean when a slip of paper falls out of the folder Moira’s carrying, presumably something she stole from Ronnie’s office. Patrick swipes it up as it lands at his feet.

“Hey! That document is mine, and I’ll be taking it now, thank you.”

Before Moira makes it across the room, Patrick manages to catch a glimpse of a few more words.

_“Elmdale County News accounts receivable reflects balances from first quarter of the current cycle…”_

Moira snatches the file out of his hand and points it at him.

“When I advise you to keep silent on this, I’m appealing to the part of you that wants most to keep your job,” Moira says in a low voice.

Patrick leaves almost as quickly as she does. The document she’d stolen didn’t look particularly incriminating – if he remembers well the business course he minored in at college, then accounts receivable means nothing more than a bill – which made the whole situation all the more confusing.

He yanks his phone out of his pocket as he walks, typing out a quick response to David:

**Me [11:36 am]**

Me too. Hoping to hear your voice again soon – can we call later?

**David [11:37 am]**

We’ll see 😉

“There you are, Patrick!” Twyla says brightly, greeting him at the foot of the studio coffee station. “I was down here looking for Ronnie, I think she –”

The distant sound of Ronnie yelling draws their attention toward the door of the main set.

“Party’s over,” Patrick says grimly. “Back to work.”

They hurry back to the set, where they find Ronnie stood in the middle of the group of employees, frozen where they sit or stand.

“I have had it up to _here_ with you people!” she shouts. “First, I come back out here to find everybody freakin’ relaxing, then _another_ bottle of my water went missing from my personal fridge…”

Hunched up on the other side of the room, Moira zips her bag shut.

“Nah, you know what? Come back at six. The day’s shot. I don’t have time for this. It’s a no-news day anyway.”

Patrick wishes he could say the same. As Ronnie works her way round the room pointing at who she wants to stay, he dials David’s number. The fact that he hears David's voice as soon as he takes a huge, deep breath of fresh air from outside could hardly be a coincidence.

“Patrick?”

“Hi, David. I would usually call under more chilled out circumstances, but are you around right now? I’ve just had the morning from hell.”

He hears David make a sympathetic little noise down the phone.

“I’m wrapping up a meeting with my campaign manager in Elm Glen. I could be in the city center by midday?”

“Wait, you don’t have to cancel anything on my account –”

But David’s already hung up. Patrick stands and looks out at the street for a while then crosses into the park, seating himself down on the wall just like David does.

He sits and relishes in the rustling of the trees around him, letting the soft, calm sound wash away the chaos of the morning. Someone jogs by him with a chorus of Joy Division’s “Love Will Tear Us Apart” playing in their head. Thankfully, they choose that moment to catch their breath and sit down on the bench just below Patrick’s feet, so Patrick takes a moment to swing his feet and bob his head in time with the music.

“What’re you dancing to?”

Patrick glances to the right to see David standing before him, looking cozier than he ever has before in a black graphic lightning-bolt sweater. His hair is blissfully untreated and a pair of black glasses rest atop his nose. He gathers his hands up into his sweater sleeves, and it’s so cute that Patrick wishes he’d gained teleportation skills instead so he could sit and snuggle David in his apartment. Like, right now.

“Oh, nothing,” Patrick says. The runner has gone now, so he’s not exactly lying. He smiles and propels himself off the wall, closing the distance between himself and David. They dance around each other awkwardly for a minute before settling for a chaste kiss on the cheek.

“So, the morning from hell, huh?” David says as they start to walk out of the park and towards his car. “Regrets about last night, no doubt?”

“Regrets? What, no. Why would I have regrets?”

David shrugs. “It’s a habit to ask.”

 _(It’s a habit to_ know, _really.)_

“Trust me, David, last night was…” Patrick wishes David could read his mind, since he’s struggling to articulate exactly how he feels about last night. “…It was really something.”

Not quite what he was hoping to come out, but it’ll do. Thankfully, David’s shoulders unclench and his posture opens up a little. “It was, wasn’t it?”

After a moment of contented silence, David says, “So are you gonna tell me what really happened this morning?”

“It was just one of those days. Ronnie, that’s my boss, was in a really terrible mood. Then the lights all went out in the studio.”

“What? I didn’t hear about any power cuts in the area. Is this one of those constituent satisfaction things I should look into?”

“No, no. The technician seemed to think that the wires had been cut.”

 _“Cut?!”_ David says. Patrick smiles, making sure he gives David’s taut, high-strung dramatics the charmed attention they deserve before letting him continue. “Well, who would want to cut them?”

“I’m not sure, but I have a pretty solid suspicion it was –”

He stops himself. Does he really want to create more family rifts in what appears to be a set of already frayed relationships? David might go off at Moira for trying to sabotage Patrick’s morning segment, then Alexis might call one or both of them some names, Johnny would sit there doing…well, whatever it is Johnny’s been doing this whole time. Patrick dreads the idea of seeing the whole lot of them in one room together. For David’s sake, mainly, he keeps quiet.

“One of the older staff,” he improvises. “Probably not happy with the new way things are being done at the station.”

To his relief, David looks uninterested. “Honestly, I’m glad I left,” he says as they reach his car. He opens the door for Patrick and then closes it behind him. “I’m not sure who told my family working together at the same company was a good idea, but they need to sit down and observe a family dinner now and again.”

Patrick can’t quite discern David’s thoughts above his scathing internal comments about the performance of the Mariah Carey tribute act playing on the local radio station at the moment, but there’s an underlayer to them that feels distracted and upset. And it’s never happened before, but Patrick actually feels upset along with him. Christ, he wishes this thing came with a handbook.

But it doesn’t. All he has in this life is two best friends who are hopelessly in love with each other, a boss who hates him and a violating amount of access to everyone’s thoughts. And between his own damn ears he feels like he only has two brain cells, one for thinking about David and the other for…well. Probably the same, but he’s not going to admit that just now. He’s going to reach for David’s hand over the car lever because he feels like he needs it.

David’s breath catches when Patrick closes his palm over the back of his hand, then tries hard not to smile. He twists his hand upwards and interlinks their fingers for a few long moments.

“So, are you gonna tell us where we’re headed this afternoon?” Patrick says quietly.

“Well…I gathered after last night that we have the whole ‘getting away into nature for a gay panic’ thing in common. Well, not a _gay_ panic for me. More like a _pan-_ ic. Anyway, I’m getting off topic. It’s just a…another place I used to like to unwind.”

Patrick nods in understanding, an understanding he immediately retracts when they pass the concerningly incestuous and euphemistic town sign of the very place he came out of the other week having pulled off an unexpected drug bust.

“Schitt’s Creek? Really?”

_(Oh. He thinks it's lame. This is embarrassing.)_

“That came out way harsher than I intended,” Patrick says quickly. “I’m just – I wasn’t expecting it, I guess.”

“Well, me neither, really,” David says, still a little defensive. “You probably know by now that my life has been…turbulent.” He says the last word with a grimace and a little circular motion of his hands, fingers splayed. “And I know it’s nothing compared to the city and certainly not the nicest place around here, but there’s just something _about_ this town. And I don’t know what. I wish there were more I could do for it. If I become governor, I might try and renovate it a bit. Encourage local vendors to lease the empty lots in the town square. Check out that dingy little motel.”

Patrick looks at him. “You really care about this place, huh?”

David shrugs, a cute, sheepish look on his face. “I guess. It’s sort of like a little haven for me. I used to spend hours wandering around here or sat in the café because no one recognized me.”

“My friend Twyla talks about the café all the time,” Patrick says, and looks up to see that that’s exactly where David is parking the car. “I must admit I’ve never really given this place much attention until last week.”

They seat themselves in the sticky, gaudy café. David smiles unguarded at the look on Patrick’s face, which he’s assuming is an alarming paradox of both underwhelmed and overwhelmed, seeing as that’s exactly how he feels.

“One thing I will recommend is that you don’t alter your gaze too quickly between the checkered floor and these sophisticated William Morris-esque walls, otherwise you will have vertigo for the rest of your life,” David says.

“Got it. And what about this stellar menu? Anything you’d recommend on that front?”

“Mm, well the amazing thing about this place is that they’ve done such a wonderful job of editing down their menus to a very concise, world-class selection of international cuisine.”

“Agreed, agreed,” Patrick says, leaning forward as though they’re two art curators discussing a million-dollar piece. He feels like someone is screaming him awake when David talks to him, like every muscle under his skin is forcing his hair to stand on end in rigorous attention. With how compatible their humor is, he barely needs to read David’s thoughts at all. Still, it doesn’t help to get a little pointer in the right direction every now and again.

_(I wonder where he’s actually from.)_

“Uh, did I mention I come from Vaughan? Well, just outside it, anyway,” Patrick says. David looks at him in mild surprise.

“You did not. Care to tell me what you’re doing all the way out here?”

Patrick shrugs. “Probably the same reason you spend your time wandering this town.”

_(What, running away?)_

“Running away,” Patrick mutters. The events of the day and then the past couple of weeks barrel into him then, and suddenly his good mood is ruined. “If only I’d known what it was I was running in _to.”_

“Elmdale’s not that bad, is it? I mean, it could use some work, but that’s why I’m doing what I’m doing.”

“I guess I’m still shaking off some lingering fear about being stuck in that rut we were talking about in our first interview.”

David nods understandingly. “Mm-hm. Well you know, if there’s something bothering you about your situation or something around you, you always have the chance to speak up. That’s something people can’t take away from you.”

Patrick suddenly thinks about Moira snooping in Ronnie’s office, the fact that she was responsible for ruining his job this morning, and thinks about all the other ways that everyone else might be out to get him. He knocks his knee against David’s and is calmed by the pressure he receives in return.

“What if…you know something’s wrong, but you can’t prove it?” he says.

A quizzical look passes over David’s face for a moment and Patrick hears him wonder what he could be on about, before he composes himself again.

“Well, I guess you just keep watching until they slip up,” David replies.

_(I want to wipe that sad look off his face.)_

Before Patrick can respond, David leans forward, grinning broadly.

“Listen, it sounds like your week has been wild. And as delicious as these…mozzarella sticks are –” David plucks one off the plate and it immediately crumples to the touch – “I want today to be more relaxing than this. Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” Patrick says, far too quickly and emphatically.

“Then let’s settle this criminally underpriced bill and get out of here.”

Patrick keeps on trusting David through the town and all its modest estates. He looks at David as they pass a particularly charming little cottage and he mutters something about Kate Winslet, and Patrick trusts him just a little more right then.

After a mile or so, David swings the car round into the side of the road and they get out at a glittering body of water.

“David, what is it with you and water? The restaurant, the pier, now this creek?”

David giggles, actually _giggles_ , and it’s the cutest thing Patrick has ever heard. “Look at it! Is that not enough reason? It’s lovely. I can sit at any point in Elmdale County and have a different view, but as long as I can see the water I know I’m not far from home.”

They sit by the side next to the creek, and without even thinking Patrick lowers his head into David’s lap, letting the stress of the past couple of days melt away with the gentle rippling of the water and David’s careful fingers carding through his hair.

“I always know where the source is,” David finishes quietly.

Patrick crooks his elbow and reaches for David’s other hand. They link their fingers together.

“Huh, what do you suppose people would say if they saw us like this?” Patrick says.

David scoffs. “I wonder. Then again, there isn’t much for them to see, especially given I’ve only got to kiss you once.”

_(I could change that right about now.)_

Patrick snatches the thought from David’s mouth before waiting around to see if David would ever get up the courage to say it.

“I could change that right about now,” Patrick murmurs, pulling himself up into David’s lap and claiming his lips in a deep, slow kiss.

David moans quietly, grabbing Patrick’s thighs and hauling him up into a better angle until he’s slightly more in control and _oh,_ this is better.

_(Wh – what. What the fuck. Head empty.)_

_Same, David. Same,_ Patrick thinks. Sometimes he has the urge to tell David about his abilities, but then there’s moments like this where David’s thoughts are like a private little bank of encouragement that spurs him on. He takes David’s jaw in his hands and deepens the kiss, pressing his tongue into David’s mouth as he grinds down on him, suddenly very aware of the tightness growing between them.

“Get these off,” he mumbles, thumbing at the waistband of David’s black joggers as David moves, soft and yielding beneath him. He finally manages to work his hand down, cupping David’s hard length over his boxers when they’re disrupted by a shout. In the distance, a family are unloading their car, the kids running down to the edge of the creek and launching themselves in the water.

David closes his eyes and lets his head fall back. “Fuck.”

“To be continued?” Patrick says bashfully.

David smirks up at him. “Absolutely.”

Not without some awkward getting up, they make themselves scarce.

_(The café bathroom – no, that’s a disgusting idea. The place we went yesterday? No. My office.)_

So he doesn’t look too suspicious, Patrick settles with a good old, “what’re you thinking about?” to try and decipher the list of locations running through David’s mind.

“Oh, you know,” David says passively. “Just trying to think of places where we can continue that.”

And suddenly, the office can’t come soon enough. Or even the café bathroom. Patrick is honestly easy either way.

They barely take their gaze off each other as they enter the block of offices where the ins and outs of David’s campaign must be taking place, and allow themselves a brief yet heated kiss in the elevator before stepping out onto the office floor.

“You know, the best thing about this room is that no one can get in unless they have the –”

David is cut off when they reach the door, which is already wide open. They step inside cautiously to find that the campaign office has been absolutely trashed. _Vote David Rose_ banners lie crumpled and torn on the floor, the computer keyboard has been mashed to bits, and there are papers strewn everywhere lying in thin shreds across the desk.

“Oh my God. What the hell happened in here?”

David’s face is frozen, completely stunned by the sight before him.

_(It looks like I might have made an enemy.)_


	7. Hold That Thought

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- This chapter is short because it took me hostage and ripped me to shreds. This story is a tricky one! I've barely decided where I want to take things, lol. Still, I hope you enjoy this one.

Patrick is busy fumbling for the phone in his bag as David stares numbly around the ruined campaign office. His facial expressions, posture and thoughts are vaguely reminiscent of someone Patrick used to know at school, and he has a terrible feeling that David’s about to have a panic attack.

“Okay David, I’m gonna call the police.”

_(Knew you couldn’t do it…not cut out for this…should never have left…)_

Patrick tries his best to soothe David with a hand on his arm as he confirms details down the phone, shushing David in between the silences on the other line.

“I can’t – all I did was go out to lunch. I could’ve been here, Patrick.”

_(Why? What reason could anyone possibly have?)_

“I know. I know.” Patrick drapes his arm more surely around David’s back and lets David fall into the embrace, breathing unevenly.

“Do you think this has anything to do with anything you’ve said recently?” Patrick tries.

“I don’t know. I don’t know what I’ve said, or who would even care enough to do this. You’ve seen my ratings.”

Patrick’s heart clenches. He should’ve known by now that this would set off a spiral of self-deprecation. There’s so much to unpack, but the office is too messy to do it all in here. He leads David outside and into the breakroom next door, keeping the door open so he can see when the police arrive. He pours him a cup of water from the cooler and sits him down, rubbing his back gently.

“Listen. We can work out all the details in the next couple of days. You’re safe, and that’s what matters to me right now.”

_(I just want to hide my face in him sometimes.)_

“Come here, David,” Patrick murmurs automatically. He stands up and lets David do exactly what he wanted to. Patrick watches the police enter for their investigation, which doesn't take long. They take a couple of photos and make some notes. Patrick leaves the room to answer a couple of witness questions, then they leave, saying they're going to deal with the rest of the facts back at the station. As soon as they're gone, Patrick quickly resumes his position in the breakroom with David, running a slow hand through his hair.

After a few long moments that Patrick wishes he could enjoy in calmer circumstances, he says gently, “Is it okay with you if I call this into the studio? I know you’re upset, but we can help you get to the bottom of this.”

_(Maybe that’ll make Mom perk her head up a bit. It would be nice to have her actively on my side for once.)_

“It’ll get ratings, I suppose,” David says, sounding a lot more reticent than he does in his head. Patrick guesses the whole Moira thing is a little too sore to unpack right now.

“And you’d be okay going on air even if you’re upset?”

“I want to go on air _because_ I’m upset. No, you know what?” David stands up suddenly, his face much more determined and stable than it has been this past half hour. “I want to – to show _grace_ , and _resilience_ under fire. No matter what little scheme Sebastien has managed to pull off this time.”

Patrick’s reporter brain suddenly switches on.

“You think Sebastien is behind this?”

He shoots a quick text to Stevie.

**Me**

Actually, can we make this live?

Replace the segment scheduled for this morning with this.

**Stevie**

ok

yeah, I just told Ronnie and she’s desperate to get it on air

give me ten, I’ll get a team ready

**Me**

Perfect

Before long, an Elmdale County News van pulls into the parking lot. Stevie, Twyla, Ted and Alexis pile out, hauling cameras and scribbling notes on the way up to the office.

“Holy shit, what happened to this place? No wonder Ronnie wants it live as soon as possible,” Stevie says.

Patrick looks at Alexis, who is distinctly more underequipped than the others. She’s standing empty-handed, staring at David sadly. He wonders if her coming along was anything to do with being the studio manager at all.

“Okay, I know you’ve had a big shock, Mr. Rose, so let me know if you need any breaks,” Twyla says gently.

But David’s eyes are hard and resolute. “That won’t be necessary.”

Patrick nods to Twyla, then launches into the story when the red light flickers on.

“Good afternoon, Elmdale. I’m Patrick Brewer, coming to you live with a breaking story on the ongoing race for governor. No more than an hour ago, candidate David Rose returned to his office to find it all but destroyed.”

Patrick turns to David as the camera swivels around to him.

“So David, have you been noticing anything strange or indicating lately? Maybe security picked up on something unusual in the past couple of days, or any loiterers outside?”

_(Nope. The weird groups of people congregating outside the offices are always for Sebastien.)_

“I’m not sure, but I don’t think so. This office block gets quite a bit of traffic during the day, so we see a lot.”

“So it’s possible that the perpetrator has been in the area before as a concerned citizen.”

“Definitely. People set meetings with us to discuss the roads, money, events, everything.”

_(Someone probably had a problem with how my finances are fluctuating this month.)_

“And finally, do you have any idea who could be to blame?”

David thinks for a moment, then gasps slightly as though he’s remembering something.

“To be completely honest, we have gotten threats from various environmental groups in the past couple of days, which I chalked up to empty anger since I can’t imagine what I’ve done to invoke that kind of reaction.”

_(Right, David. Here we go. Running home or whatever the football thing is.)_

He turns to the camera in full. “With one hundred percent confidence, I can vouch for the inclusivity of this campaign,” he says fiercely. “We listen to and care about our prospective constituents. Even whoever did this.”

Just as Patrick is wrapping up his report, the elevator dings. Before the newest member of the mishmash party even enters the room, Patrick can tell who it is by the tall, angled sweep of their shadow.

“Theodore, Alexis, you departed without me! Why did –”

Moira stops in the doorway, her long orange wig and chrome, spacey dress billowing behind her. Her face is as conflicted as it was when Patrick had caught her in the act of…whatever the hell she’d been doing.

“David…” she mouths.

_(This was bound to happen at some point…)_

“Right,” Moira says more assuredly, snapping her fingers at the camera. “Shall we take this interview from the top?”

“Mrs. Rose, we’ve already filmed the interview –”

“It’s the biggest story of the day, and as head reporter, that makes it my domain.”

 _“Your_ story? Do you really think you’re the best reporter for the job, considering your bias?” David cuts in.

“My bias? David, you cannot really be talking about my _tiny_ past liaisons with your opponent,” Moira says, though her voice is uncertain. “I – anyway, I suppose talk of bias cannot hardly gloss over the curls of our little Pat-rick here. I wouldn’t like to imagine what you’ve been getting up to within your little after-work dalliances.”

“You’re deflecting,” David snaps.

_(Fuck, this is such a mess.)_

Patrick’s not even sure who thought that one. Honestly, it could have been anyone and it would still track. He gapes around the room again, his head spinning. He presses two fingers to each temple. He’s never been more confused in his life. Well, since yesterday, anyway. Ever since that damn lightning, it’s felt more like everyone else has a hold on him, rather than the other way around. When he’d told Stevie about his power, she had suggested he use it for good, or to control people if he felt so inclined. What use was that if no one around here would communicate properly?

“Well,” Moira says, “If there’s no interview needed, then consider this visit a mere check-up on my son. I…” she sighs, and Patrick recognizes the same guilty face she'd had during the power cut. “I’m sorry, David.”

David shrugs. “Whatever. It’s not like you did it.”

_(I might as well have done.)_

And with that last, baffling thought, Moira leaves. With the story caught, the team start packing up. Alexis is still looking at David worriedly. Patrick steps aside to let her through to where he’s now sat, looking heartbreakingly small in his chair.

Stevie looks at Patrick and raises an eyebrow.

_(Now what?)_

Patrick shrugs at her, pulling his lips downward in an I-don’t-know gesture. Alexis is still murmuring quietly to David in an attempt to comfort him, so Patrick gives him one last meaningful look then ducks out of the room with Stevie.

**Me (to David Rose)**

Hope you’re okay. I’ll catch up with you later. ❤️

“So…you were looking pretty troubled back there,” Stevie says. “Everything okay up in everyone’s noggins?”

“No,” Patrick grumbles. “I always thought I was the only person walking around with weird, conflicting thoughts in my head. Turns out everyone’s just the same.”

“Come back to mine?” Stevie offers as they reach the parking lot. “The only thing left today is the eight segment, and I never need to stick around for that. Guess you don’t either since you’re a reporter now. Come on, you can tell me all the shit that’s been going on for the past couple of days.”

****

Two beers, half a 12-inch deluxe pizza and a joint later, Patrick feels more relaxed than he has in a long time. The ceiling of Stevie’s apartment is moving weirdly, blotching and spinning before his eyes like water dropped into wet paint. He sits up, touching the side of his face as he sways from side to side.

“We…need to focus,” Patrick slurs.

“Mmngh…no. This _is_ us focusing.”

_(…)_

“Stevieeeee…stop not thinking. I need you t-to...you to cooperate here.”

Patrick squints, staring at the mismatched furniture – the red plastic chairs, the green bedding, the tartan…something? Whatever it is. It looks like a tacky Victorian aniline dress, and he’s sitting in it. And he’s trying very hard to iron out whatever conspiracy he seems to have stumbled on in his workplace. He's very rapidly realized that the combination of Elmdale County’s media and politics is like mixing vinegar and bleach. Then pouring the mixture over a den of vipers that have superiority complexes and mommy issues.

“’Kay, that’s an exaggeration. It’s not _that_ bad.”

“Oh, did I say that out loud?”

“Mmmyup.” Stevie pulls herself upright as well, grabbing the notebook they forgot about as soon as the weed kicked in. “Go through it from the beginning. All the bits that you know.”

“Okay. So…first of all, if the way he felt when we were at the creek is anything to go by, David is definitely a grower.”

“Ew! I’m talking about campaign stuff.”

“Okay, _fine.”_ Patrick scrubs a hand across his face and snatches the notebook, drawing out a mind map. “Let’s go back to the – the first, um, meeting. I had a prewritten question for David about his criticism of Sebastien’s charity stuff.” He scribbles that down, not entirely sure it’ll be discernible when he’s sober. “And Sebastien was cool about it when he answered, but his thoughts contradicted it. He's been fluffing up his campaign from the start, being far too sickly sweet.” He adds more lines to the mind map. “And then Moira…I feel like she’s got her priorities in a twist. Her relationship with David is bad, and she’s got _something_ on Sebastien, I just know it. Then there was that weird moment with her where I saw her rooting through Ronnie’s office for…something.”

“Fuck, was that only this morning? Or yesterday?”

“I don’t know. This has been the longest day of my life. I swear, if anything jumps out at me when I get home, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

“You know what? Forget about the mind map, and everything else. We can look at it tomorrow when we're not baked. Just go home now. I think your day’s been hectic enough. Take the rest of the weed, if you want.”

“Hm…no. You’ll call in a favor in six months’ time and make me pay you for it at some point.”

_(You know me too well.)_

Way too high to drive, Patrick ends up taking the forty-minute walk home and sobers up slowly as he goes, ignoring the various thoughts from passers-by about him being a waster and the overly concerned woman who said to her daughter “Lottie, get away from the strange man!” He leaves his car at Stevie’s, hoping she'll remember to drive it in for him. 

After downing a pint of water and slapping himself around the face a bit, Patrick makes his way to the living room and switches on the TV, too tired to even undress yet. The only thing on his mind is getting horizontal on some kind of surface, even if he's disappointed that David isn't there with him. In the absolute shambles that his day had been, he’d completely forgotten that he was going to ask David to come back to his place tonight.

Dropping onto the couch, he sighs loudly and tries to stop thinking so much…

Then.

The

Door.

Fucking.

Knocks.

"No...no. Go away. Mmnfgh."

Patrick feels the frustrated groan deep inside him before it bursts out. Whoever’s on the other side of that door better be David or the Grim Reaper. At this point, he’s easy either way.

He wrenches the door open, and is surprised to find that it’s a mix of both.

“Mrs. Rose?”

Moira, looking more withdrawn and lowkey than he’s ever seen her before, is stood on the other side of the threshold. She’s wigless and wearing a simple cable knit dress, which is probably her version of that old, raggy, faithful pair of sweatpants that everyone has but would never admit to.

“Forgive the intrusion, Patrick,” Moira says tiredly. “I could barely sleep. I think…there are a few things I’d like to get off my chest.”

Too taken aback to make any kind of acidic comment, Patrick invites her in. Moira takes a seat on the couch, eyes full of worry. He sits beside her.

“What’s going on?” he prompts when Moira says nothing.

“I fear Sebastien Raine is not who he says he is,” she says simply. Her voice is hoarse.

Patrick blinks at her. “You’re gonna have to give me a little more than that, Moira.”

“I’ve seen political promise in the boy since he was in school,” Moira says. “I always thought he would be a worthy candidate for governor should he ever decide to run, so I vowed he’d ever have my support. But the past couple of weeks have been particularly taxing and I fear I can’t keep this inside any longer.”

Moira’s thoughts are blank. It all seems to be sitting on the tip of her tongue. Patrick feels a sudden surge of anger inside, ready to rear up and out of him.

“Wait. So you _have_ been siding with Sebastien this whole time?”

Moira nods.

“Over your own son?”

“I was worried for David!” she says desperately. “I hardly wanted to offer him false hope when his ratings were so poor. But I’ve been re-watching recent interviews and debates, and I fear David hasn’t been handed a fair lot in this race.” Moira clears her throat. Patrick settles himself back, fingers steepled on his knees and trying his hardest not to lay into Moira for her treatment of her son. “It all started when Sebastien began attending donor meetings that he adamantly prohibited myself or any of his other supporters from attending. He allegedly became more distant from his campaign managers and started flouting questions by promising grandiose things for the county, so I took it upon myself to dig further into his donations.”

“The environmental ones?”

Moira shrugs. “I can’t be sure. Some of them are untraceable.”

“Really? His transparency is a huge part of his platform!”

“Mm. I looked into his outgoing contributions, too, and there were lots of personal checks to local farms.”

Patrick thinks about the rejuvenation of the area and local creators, and how passionate David is about it. “That’s…a good thing, isn’t it?”

“Well dear, if it _is_ philanthropic, whyever is it buried in the back of his budget?”

“I –”

“What’s worse are the incoming funds,” Moira interrupts. Damn, she’s got a lot to get out of her system. “One particular is always the same amount, from some mysterious ‘Oasis Unlimited.’ I can’t seem to connect them to any particular business or institution.”

“How could they possibly be making any profits with zero visibility?”

“I visited the website, and it’s no more than a little construction man stood with his arm askew, saying ‘We’ll be back soon’,” Moira says, doing a crude imitation of the figure.

Patrick tries not to laugh. “Mrs. Rose, it sounds like you dug a lot deeper, not a little.”

“I couldn’t help it. After I saw the state of my boy’s office today…”

“Do you know anything about that?” Patrick says quickly.

“That’s the last puzzle piece of my little enigma, and I’m hoping you’d like to aid me in slotting it in,” Moira says.

_(I hope David’s said nothing to poison him against me.)_

“I’m aware I haven’t been the most reliable, nor quite the most capacious reporter as I could have been,” Moira says regretfully. “And all this business has taken such a terrible toll on my family. I’d like to remedy that.”

“With all due respect, this feels more like a personal affair,” Patrick says carefully, even if a million flashing lights seem to be spinning round in his head at the revelation.

“I’m hardly asking you to come to my house and sleep in my son’s bed, Patrick,” she says sharply.

Ironic.

“Though you might be on tracks to replace me someday soon and I suppose I should work harder to keep my place at ECN, I must admit you have talent,” Moira continues. “You scrape beneath the frothy surface of our interlocutors as though you can read their minds.”

Patrick laughs nervously. “If I told you I could, what would you say?”

Moira titters and pats him on the cheek. “That’s the spirit. I’ll leave you to your slumber for now, but I feel we have a lot to discuss come the morn.”

Moira stands up, appraising an unopened bottle of wine on the open-plan kitchen island as she makes her way to the door.

“Oh, that’s, um…that’s a good wine,” Patrick tries, for the sake of conversation.

Moira gives him a pointed look. “Well, if you’re offering, I suppose I shan't refuse.” She plucks the wine up by the neck of the bottle and sweeps out of the room. Before she leaves, she turns around somewhat meekly and says, “If you ever happen to come into contact with David soon, tell him…well, just let him know that his mother misses him very much.”

Moira enters the room as uncertainly as she came. Patrick hears her rip the foil off the wine cork as she clops back down the hall in her chunky heels.

Patrick doesn’t bother changing into his pyjamas. He makes a trail of clothing all the way to his bathroom, quickly swishes his teeth with mouthwash before flopping down onto his bed, spread-eagled and naked, and falls into quite possibly the worst sleep he’s ever had in his entire life.


	8. One Track Mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Rating moved up to E for this one :)  
> \- I'm so glad you're all still enjoying!! This fic is fighting so hard and it's got really difficult to write for some reason - probably due to the crazy-ass plot - but I'm doing my best, lol.

The next morning, Patrick steps into his dressing room with a certainty and calmness that surprises him. What with everything going on, he feels slightly less alone to have Sebastien at the forefront of his friend’s suspicions and some sort-of-support from Moira.

Someone taps lightly at his door, and it pops open without waiting for a response. Ronnie stands there, head held high and…smiling? Patrick checks in with her thoughts. They’re just as bright.

“Patrick! Just the person I was hoping to see. How’s my newest star reporter doing? Want me to yell for a coffee?”

Patrick almost laughs in shock. “Uh…Ronnie, are you feeling okay? You didn’t hit your head or anything?”

“I don’t think so. Why d’you ask?” Ronnie says, nonplussed.

“No reason! Glad you’re feeling well, and it’s not...head trauma, or anything.”

_(Weird kid.)_

“’Kay, so everyone’s great, then. I’ve got some exciting news for you. Sebastien Raine’s coming by the set for a taped exclusive! Go wild, kid!”

Patrick stares dumbly for a moment. How the hell is he gonna _do_ this interview with all the knowledge he has on Sebastien now? He’s meant to stay impartial, and yet he’s spent the whole campaign spitting at the feet of one candidate and trying to get into the pants of the other. So much for media transparency.

“That’s, um…great news! Just great. I’ll – I’ll go prep some questions right now.”

Ronnie stick a thumb up and leaves a very unsettled and uncomfortable Patrick to his thoughts. He almost wants the old Ronnie back.

What does he even _ask?_ It has to be incisive, but not inflammatory. Clear, but not obvious. As he sits at his desk stewing over his options, a text comes through from Moira.

**Moira Rose (Don’t Answer)**

A most peculiar little piece of news came to me this morning. Some of Sebastien’s long-time patrons quietly pulled their support a few days ago.

At the bottom of the text, Moira has linked some contact details for Klair and Canyon, names Patrick recognizes from the campaign ball. He remembers, with a tinge of irritation, the way they’d bullied David, but also feels a little intrigued about what could have possibly happened to cause them to withdraw from his campaign.

He taps in Canyon’s number and presses dial. The phone barely rings once and the line picks up, but Canyon’s voice sounds very far away and acoustic.

“Um, who is this? The wall that displays my caller IDs is downloading updates right now.”

“I’m gonna pretend I know what that means, and introduce myself. I’m Patrick Brewer. We met at the campaign ball not long ago.”

“Oh. You were with _David,_ right?” Canyon says it with a little bitterness, as though he was so used to saying David’s name like that that he almost forgot he’d just renounced David’s political opponent. “Wait. You were with David…”

“It’s okay, you can say it. I’m not rooting for Sebastien either.”

“Oh, thank God. I was kind of worried I was on the end of one of those scammy calls for a second. So, do you need something?”

Patrick thinks for a moment. What _does_ he need from a clever, spoiled bully who hasn’t much of use to offer to anyone? Ah, yes. “I need dirt,” he says, “on Sebastien. As much of it as you can get. I’ve done some digging on him and found disappearing funds and a shell company already.”

“Smart. That’s why I pulled my money from his pocket. The last thing I need are haters who aren’t even _my_ haters.”

“Is there anything you can tell me about Sebastien? Maybe a donor called…” Patrick racks his brain to remember what Moira said to him last night. “Oasis Unlimited.”

There’s several beats of silence on the line.

“We’re not a recorded line or anything, are we? No streaming? Casting? Nothing?”

“Regular old two-way talking, Canyon. I promise.”

“Alright. If you wanna find Oasis…check out Oak Hills first. I’ve heard some things. Lots of – ahem – _gold_ there. Gold and oil.”

_Oil?_ Sheesh. The kryptonite to rural areas like this.

“Thanks, Canyon. I really appreciate it.”

Just then, Stevie and Twyla enter Patrick’s dressing room, interrupting the stew of thoughts that the call left.

“Patrick, you’re on soon,” Twyla says. “I’d get changed quickly too – you wanna look the part, or the things people are saying will probably get to you even more.”

He sighs and stands up, grabbing the blazer Alexis picked out for him off the rack. It’s a dark purple satiny thing; not something he’d usually choose, but these days he tends to form his opinions on clothing based on what David might say if he saw them on him. Or on his bedroom floor. Either way.

He makes his way into the studio with Stevie and Twyla, pressing them with questions.

“What’s everyone been saying?”

“Oh you know how it is…” Twyla says sadly. “Sometimes when a pretty inexperienced person magically gets the big job, people talk.”

“But I worked for this! It wasn’t magic!”

_(Well, maybe a little bit of magic,)_ Stevie thinks.

“They’re just surprised, is all,” she adds out loud. “It happened so fast.”

Patrick shrugs at the two of them, bidding a quiet goodbye as they’re called to opposite ends of the studio. He watches as his workplace flies into its usual morning frenzy, a little deflated at his apparent lack of support from his colleagues. It’s not like he _tried_ to get struck by lightning. He can hardly blame anyone, though. It must make him look like some kind of wunderkind.

He’s broken out of his reverie by Alexis tottering over and tapping on his shoulder, the usual clipboard stowed under her arm.

“Ronnie mentioned that you’ve got a taped special with Sebastien. Are you super pissed?”

“To be honest, I’m a little nervous about it. You know, with the whole – thing.”

Alexis nods knowingly, like he’s only referring to the possible involvement he had in trashing David’s office and not the definite sketchy shit he’s been up to behind the scenes.

“I hope my questions aren’t too hard to answer,” Patrick goes on.

“Apparently Sebastien, like, _loves_ your questions. Ronnie said he asked for you specifically.”

Ignoring the sickly feeling that sets in his stomach, Patrick just nods. “We’ll see how it goes.”

Alexis smiles and boops him on the nose in the same way he saw her do to David yesterday in his office. Patrick makes his way to his desk and tries to focus on the lunchtime segment that he now has domain over, but all he can think about is the taped interview that’s being recorded later tonight. The studio is in its usual chaos (“Twyla, you silly girl, you cannot simply unplug my entire set and expect things to proceed as usual!” “Then how does MTV Unplugged work?”) and no one’s thoughts are interesting enough to distract him, so after his lunchtime news reading is over, all he can do is pace and shuffle his notes.

It feels like forever to get there, but when Sebastien first saunters into the studio, winking at the makeup crew and sniffing as he surveys the room with a conceited air, everything starts to move in double-time.

_(I wonder what Pat’s plan is, knowing what he knows now.)_

Patrick turns to his left to see Moira packing her brown crocodile handbag, ready to pack in for the day. He makes a beeline for her and her look grows more scrutinizing as he approaches.

“I thought you should know,” he says in a low voice. “I’m going to say what’s right, no matter what. I can’t turn away a story like that when it falls into my lap.”

Moira pretends to look unfazed, but her eyes are gleaming. “I can’t possibly know what you mean.”

He offers her the smallest smile and lets her get on her way. As she leaves, Patrick’s phone lights up with a name that makes his stomach flip.

**David Rose**

Heard you have an interview with Sebastien in T-minus now. Meet me afterwards, I’ll see if I can take the sting out a bit. 😉

Well, if that’s not an incentive to get this over and done with, nothing is. Just then, Sebastien returns from makeup, heading his way towards set confidently.

“Patrick,” he says. “It’s good to see you again.”

Patrick just nods.

“Shall we get right to it, then?” Sebastien rubs a firm hand over Patrick’s jaw before taking his place on the interviewee’s couch.

“Ready to go when you guys are,” Twyla says from behind the camera.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, Patrick settles at his desk. Twyla holds up five fingers and lowers them one by one. The red light switches on.

“Good evening, Elmdale. I’m Patrick Brewer, hosting a special segment with candidate Sebastien Raine as the elections draw ever closer –”

“Good to see you again, Patrick,” Sebastien breezes ahead. “As I’ve told you time and again, it’s always a delight to sit with you and chat.”

Patrick’s skin crawls. He tries not to let himself get sucked in by the charm.

“Of course. Now, as I’m sure you’re aware, more than a few feathers have been ruffled this week on your opponent’s side. How do you choose to respond to the allegations that you or some of your more avid supporters may be to blame for the destruction of his property?”

_(Please. He can’t possibly think I went in there and trashed the place myself.)_

Sebastien’s brow furrows. “This might sound a little silly, but more than anything, Patrick, my feelings are hurt. I’ve been as honorable an opponent to David as most would be, and I hope that things between us are smoothed over soon.”

“Right.”

With the obvious question out of the way, Patrick’s palms begin to sweat. He shuffles his cards. He’d jotted down a couple of potential talking points:

  * _You’ve made a lot of private donations to our area farms, huh?_
  * _Why do you have environmental groups up in arms?_
  * _Who is Oasis Unlimited? They must be huge supporters!_



The second one feels safe. But the third one is just _right._

Sebastien’s face blanches. “How do you even know that name?”

“You publicly disclosed it for the sake of transparency, in case you don’t remember,” Patrick lies. “Care to share more about the business?”

_(He’s getting awfully close. I need a new way to deal with Patrick Brewer, stat.)_

“I don’t actually follow up with the majority of my donors. What they do with their money is their business.”

“Really? That is _shocking_ news,” Patrick says, starting to relish this just a little bit. “You’ve never met with anyone from the company? Considering their massive monthly donations –”

“This isn’t live, right?” from behind the camera, Twyla shakes her head. Sebastien leans forward, suddenly looking much less silky smooth than usual. “Do you think I don’t know what you’re up to?” he spits.

Ronnie clears her throat loudly from the other side of the set as the men glare each other down. Patrick sits back first.

“Right, let’s start again, shall we,” he says. “Mr. Raine, you’ve made a lot of private donations to our area farms, huh?”

To Patrick’s surprise, Sebastien smiles. “As I’ve always said, the kinds of produce we harvest in this county are the hidden backbone of society. I want to make sure our greenery keeps growing.”

_(Those bribes were completely private. How could he possibly know about them?)_

“I agree one hundred percent. Why haven’t you been bragging about your philanthropy more, Mr. Raine?”

“The extra…charity I engage in is nobody’s business. I’m surprised you even heard about it, frankly.”

“Why? Is it supposed to be a secret?”

“No!” Sebastien shoots up from his seat and jabs a finger towards Patrick. “In fact, I’m wondering why on earth you’re trying to vilify me here! Who have you been talking to?”

“I reserve my right to protect my sources,” Patrick says fiercely.

“Then I reserve the right to end this interview. Get your wonder boy under control, Ms. Lee. I’m out of here.”

Sebastien storms off, a crew of assistants and journalists hurrying after him. Ronnie stalks onto the set as Twyla shuts the camera down.

“What the hell was that?” Ronnie exclaims. Patrick’s not convinced she’s all that mad at him, though.

“I thought he could handle it!” Patrick argues.

“And I thought you had a little more tact! Come on Brewer, pull yourself together.” She huffs and leaves the set, following after Sebastien. Somehow, disappointed Ronnie is worse than mad Ronnie.

Back in his dressing room, Patrick puts his head in his hands and takes deep, cleansing breaths until he feels a bit saner.

_(I wonder what he has to say when he doesn’t have his little camera as a shield.)_

Patrick’s stomach churns at the concerning thought in that familiar low voice. He turns around slowly to see Sebastien leaning on the doorframe, looking many degrees calmer than he had ten minutes ago.

“You know, I’m rather impressed by you, Patrick Brewer,” Sebastien drawls. “I was wondering if you’d find a way to break yourself in before I did it for you.”

Patrick frowns and narrows his eyes as he swivels his chair in full. “You told everyone you liked my questions.”

Sebastien titters as he strides forward, pulling up a chair until he’s right in front of Patrick. “Oh, I did _like_ them. I liked how easy they used to be. You really put me on the spot there, so I applaud you for finding your spine.”

Sebastien made no move to deny anything Patrick had asked of him in the interview, which only confirmed his corruption in the race. If he’d come in here ranting and foaming at the mouth, things might have been a bit more complicated. That’s not to say they were a walk in the park right now.

“What do you want, Sebastien?”

“Oh, not much,” Sebastien says lightly, playing with the cuff of Patrick’s blazer. “Ms. Lee wants us to rerecord the interview without the claws out this time, and I want you to say yes.”

“Or what?” Patrick grits out between his teeth.

Sebastien’s eyes go cold. “Or I’ll refuse to do another one and publicise your little affair with David.”

Despite the empty threat, Patrick’s stomach drops at the sound of David’s name in Sebastien’s mouth.

“It’s not an _affair –”_

“I can’t imagine how that would look for him,” Sebastien says menacingly. “The poor little rich boy who ran away from his inheritance to make a difference, reverting back to his old habits to keep up his ratings. Do you really want people thinking he flirted with you to win your favor and get you to ask good questions in his interviews?”

_(Checkmate.)_

Patrick swallowed. As much as he hated to agree with Sebastien…checkmate, indeed. He had him cornered. He tried to weigh up his options and drag out for as long as possible the period of time in which he wasn't being squashed under Sebastien's thumb, but Patrick's overwhelming urge to protect David had already won out immediately.

“Fine,” he mutters. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

Sebastien’s expression warms up. “Good boy. Now, where were we?”

The rest of Patrick’s evening at work passes in a blur. The whole office has cleared out now, and it’s just him, Sebastien, Ronnie and some cameraman that must have replaced Twyla after her shift ended. He churns his way through some pre-written questions that were miles away from what he really wanted to say, and Sebastien’s answers were miles away from the truth. When it’s over, he takes a big gulp of water and can’t get out there fast enough.

**Me**

I’m up for whatever you have planned. Just get me out of here

**David Rose**

img_5094

On it. x

Patrick smiles down at the photo of David, Alexis, Stevie and Twyla getting ready to go out, presumably to the club in Elmdale that Stevie had been talking about earlier. If anything good at all comes out of this mess, Patrick thinks, then it’s the little friendship he’s generated between these amazing people.

He bids a quick hello to Ray then gets ready fast. The other week, Alexis had started folding up the shirts he wore on set and putting them in his bag with a not-so-subtle wink, and Patrick is grateful for the help right now as he roots around for something to wear. He fishes out a cream white shirt with a multicolored undercollar and cuffs that he’d worn for a report the other day, and David had sent him about twenty heart-eyes emojis as he watched from home. He pairs it with some navy-blue trousers and heads out the door eagerly. His day had been horrible. He felt like David’s safety had been at risk, and even more than it was all his fault. He’s clamoring to hold him close, to feel him, even if he can’t tell him why.

The club is already bouncing when he arrives, and the line is thankfully short. David’s sleek black shirt and floral kilt go _straight_ to Patrick’s groin, and he has to physically suppress a very embarrassing noise when he sees him. To Patrick’s surprise, David pulls him in for a long, slow kiss as greeting, not caring who might see them. It makes Patrick’s heart flutter to be doing this so publicly, even with the risk of someone catching sight of them. As far as the somebodies in Elmdale County go, they’re both technically famous now. He relishes in the moment, gripping tighter to David’s hips and licking into his mouth until David pulls away to plant another, chaste kiss on Patrick’s cheek.

“First round’s on you, Brewer, for coming late!” Stevie calls from the bar. Patrick laughs at her and orders everyone tall pitchers of their preferred cocktails, which do the job pretty quickly for Stevie and Twyla, who proceed to try and stuff themselves into a corner of the club where they won’t be seen. Alexis is the center of attention on the dance floor already. Patrick seats himself next to David in a booth beside the bar, and they knock knees and brush hands as they sip their cocktails.

“So you had another rough day, huh?” David says over the pulse of the music.

Patrick nods. “In a string of rough days. Half the time I feel like quitting and doing something else.”

“I thought reporting was your dream job?” David asks.

Patrick sighs, feeling far heavier than he wants to while he’s here next to David. “Me too. It turns out it’s not so easy when you – I mean…sometimes I feel like I know people _too_ well. Does that make sense?”

“Nope,” David says, and they both laugh.

_(I wonder how he managed to climb the ranks so quickly.)_

Patrick takes a long gulp of his cocktail. “You know, I’ve been wondering the same thing.”

David’s hand, which had been tapping along to the beat of the music on the table, stops. He turns to Patrick slowly.

“What did you just say?”

It takes Patrick a moment to click on and then _oh, fuck._ _You’re an idiot._

“Um…I – uh…”

David frowns and shakes his head like he’s trying to get water out of his ears. “Did you just –”

“No,” Patrick answers automatically. “Whatever you’re about to say. I didn’t.”

David’s eyes go wide. “You did. You know what I’m talking about. You _did.”_

Patrick braces himself, worried that David will for some reason be angry or maybe call him a freak, but it doesn’t come. Instead, David looks...not as surprised as Patrick thought he would be, and a little…embarrassed?

“Wait. So, we’re definitely gonna circle back to the fact that you can literally fucking read minds, but this…thing…has been on the whole time? Like, you’ve been reading my mind the whole time?” David says.

Patrick clamps his lips together and nods. “Mhm. Yup. Sorry to break it to you.”

“Oh my god. Oh my _god.”_ David puts his hands over the side of his face, mortified. Patrick chuckles and pulls them away gently.

“Hey, it’s not all that bad. Sometimes I don’t hear everything. But when I do…I usually agree with the things you’re thinking.”

“What, about you being the actual hottest person I’ve ever seen?” David scoffs.

“Not quite that part, but…all the other things. About, um. Wanting to – do things. With me. And to me.”

_(Thank fuck.)_

“Oh. Um, okay. Well, as you already know, I’d be open to…the possibility of that –”

“Just shut up and get us out of here, Rose.”

Already a bit too over the limit to drive, David and Patrick call a rideshare back to David’s condo, a beautiful little top-floor pad on the outskirts of the city. Patrick barely even closes the door before he’s being crowded up against it by David’s strong, broad hands.

_(God, you look so hot in this shirt.)_

“You know I can hear you, right?”

_(Oh, yes.)_

Patrick bites back a sigh at the thought of David saying absolutely nothing and just thinking whatever he wants Patrick to hear. There’s something incredibly hot about it that he isn’t quite sure he can put a finger on.

It wasn’t long before David liberated him of his clothes and is now searching the planes of his skin with his fingers and tongue, leaving trails of hard kisses all down his neck, stomach and in the V of his hips. 

_(I could do this all night. I want to take you apart, piece by piece.)_

“David, don’t stop,” Patrick gasps, as David tugs down his boxers and starts running his hand up and down Patrick’s length before taking him into his mouth. He groans and pulls at David’s hair as he flattens his tongue along his sensitive underside, gripping his thighs tightly for better purchase.

_(Hey, now I can talk to you with your cock in my mouth.)_

Patrick lets go of his dignity and lets out a loud moan at that.

“David, that’s _so_ hot, you have no idea what you –”

_(I have a better idea. Get on the bed.)_ Then he pulls off, and Patrick tries not to show his disappointment as he scrambles to the bed. The covers are soft and part of him wants to lie back and hold David here all night. But that’ll come later, he supposes.

_(There’s lube in the second drawer. Grab it.)_

“You have a condom as well?”

_(Nope, I’m gonna fuck your thighs.)_

“Oh my God.”

_(Is that verbal consent?)_

“How about _you_ give me some verbal consent, David?” Patrick teases.

“Oh, you have my consent,” David says aloud. He pops open the lube that Patrick has given him and runs it between the cleft of Patrick’s thighs, then presses a soft kiss to his lips before sinking inside. It’s all Patrick can do not to fall apart right there. He touches himself in time with David’s strokes, capturing his lips in a bruising kiss just as their pleasure crests at the same time and they come, crying out softly and holding each other tight.

For a long, blissful moment, David’s thoughts are completely silent. Patrick relishes in the calm of it, and tries to pretend for a moment that he’s never been able to hear thoughts all along. Though it’s certainly helped get them where they were, sometimes David is the only person whose thoughts Patrick wishes he couldn’t hear. It would match the beautiful mystery of the rest of him not to know, and he mourns the hypothetical loss of one day, for whatever reason, stroking a hand across David’s cheek and saying “what’s going on in that beautiful head, huh?” because he’ll always just know.

David extracts himself from the grip and fetches a warm washcloth and a water bottle, pressing a soft kiss to Patrick’s temple as he comes back.

“Thank you,” Patrick says quietly, his voice a little hoarse.

“What, for the sex, or…?”

“Well, yes, but…just for getting me out of my head. I needed it.”

David smiles at him sympathetically and climbs into bed beside him, pulling him in tight.

“I guess this hasn’t been easy for you, has it?”

Patrick shakes his head. “It’s only a new thing, too. It started the other month with that lightning strike, and since then I haven’t been able to switch it off. It’s been good for work, obviously, but…it hurts sometimes. Physically, I mean. I get all these headaches and I’m always overwhelmed.”

David tuts and kisses his temple again. Then he leans back, a mischievous glint in his eye.

“Not to stay on the subject forever, but…you haven’t heard Sebastien thinking anything sketchy, have you?”

Patrick’s throat clenches in panic at the sound of Sebastien’s name, and the bargain he’d struck with him earlier that day. It all feels too messy to get David involved in the shady dealings of his candidate, so he decides to let him stay gracefully in the dark. For now.

“Uh, not that I know of,” Patrick says, even though it makes his chest ache to lie to David. “To be honest with you, Sebastien’s thoughts are full of nothing anyway. I can barely make heads or tails of them.”

He’s not exactly lying. And David laughs like he believes him, so Patrick relaxes and lets himself be pulled into another soft kiss before they both settle their heads on the same pillow.

“Goodnight, David,” Patrick whispers.

David smiles as he closes his eyes.

_(Goodnight, Patrick.)_

****

Patrick thanks every star in the sky that it’s his day off the next morning. It means he can wake up, put on one of David’s T shirts, and bring him orange juice and pancakes for breakfast as a surprise. They don’t spend much time within ten feet of the bed that day, alternating between eating, sharing stories, cuddling and sex until the evening arrives.

“Oh, your interview is on in an hour! I completely forgot!” David gasps as they’re laid out on the couch reading.

Patrick only raises his eyebrows in affirmation.

“Oh my God, I have an idea. Let’s get Stevie around. I bet she’d love to watch you rip Sebastien to shreds.”

“No, I don’t think she’ll be bothered about –”

But David is already on the phone. Patrick’s heart starts thumping as he confirms Stevie will be coming over. Within minutes she’s at the door, a crate of beers in one hand and a bag of Chinese food in the other, as though she was already planning on watching the interview with them. Patrick tries not to bring up the interview as they crack open the beers and eat, and he’s relieved every time the conversation takes a turn in another direction. But then, some story Stevie is telling about Twyla reminds her.

“Patrick, your interview will be on, like, right now! Put it on, put it on,” she says to David giddily. She’s expecting the brutal interrogation that Patrick had given him when everyone was still in the office. Of course, Stevie had already told David about _that_ version, but Patrick hadn’t had the nerve to bring up what had happened once everyone left.

“Oh, we really don’t need to watch that –”

But Stevie has already turned on the news just in time for the worst parts.

_“Yes, and I think it’s really interesting what you have to say about softening dramatic penalties on corporate waste production, and how it’ll ultimately benefit the economy.”_

The sound of his own voice is like saltwater rushing to his ears. All three of them watch the horrible interview like a car crash, and Patrick feels unable to look away.

Stevie’s thoughts are full of baffled queries and the odd mention of Patrick being a bastard, but David’s are completely, utterly silent. Still, he seems to have enough rationale left to form a single, audible question:

“Patrick, what the fuck is this?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come yell at me on [Tumblr](https://fairmanor.tumblr.com/), if you so desire.


	9. Mind Over Matter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- yoooo we're near the end!!! I'm so happy you're all sticking with me through this bonkers fucking story. It's been so fun to write. One more chapter to go!

**Sebastien Raine**

Good boy. x

Patrick stares down at the notification on his phone, feeling sick. Stevie and David are on each side of him, eyes glued to the TV.

_(Patrick, what the fuck?)_

_(I don’t care if you can hear this. Just tell me what’s going on.)_

_(It’s not even that you’re supporting him. You’re just giving him this platform. You’re giving it to him.)_

_(What’s going to happen to the ratings now?)_

Patrick’s at war with himself, picturing a thousand different scenarios in which he tells them what happened, in which he doesn’t, in which he runs from the apartment and never looks back. If he tells David why he conducted the interview like that, David might get mad at him for shielding him. “I can handle my own problems,” he would say. “I’m not some wounded puppy you need to look after.” And Patrick won’t have that. 

“Editing butchered it,” is what trips off his tongue, unbidden. “They cut out all the parts where I really let him have it. Stevie, you were there!”

“I was, but I wasn’t there for this!” She gestures at the TV, where a commercial for stain removal is now playing. Ironic. “What happened in between then and this, Patrick?”

After a moment, the tightly-wound David and Stevie unravel a little at their own realization. “…What happened in between then and this, Patrick?” Stevie repeats, sympathy bleeding into her tone.

_(Whatever it is, we’ll get through it together.)_

Patrick turns to David when he hears the thought and squeezes his thigh.

“It’s…it’s - God, everything is too much,” Patrick says. As he puts his head in his hands, he feels like he’s breaking apart at the seams a little. “I don’t want anyone else to get involved.”

“No offence, but we’re already involved enough as it is,” Stevie says. “There’s not much more you could spring on us that we wouldn’t be able to handle.”

Patrick relaxes, but only a little. She’s right.

“Sebastien…blackmailed me,” he murmurs, a sudden wave of shame washing over him as he says it out loud. “And it was stupid, I shouldn’t have let him get to me, but he started talking about David and publicising everything and I just got angry and I…”

He takes a deep, shaky breath, and feels David’s strong, warm palm on his back. It feels surer than he thought it would.

“I know he didn’t mean it,” Patrick continues. “I know it was an empty threat.”

David shakes his head emphatically. “Mm. Nope. Not with Sebastien it isn’t.”

_(Did I ever tell you what he did to me in college?)_

Patrick frowns. “No, you didn’t.”

“Okay, as cool as your psychicness is, there’s another person in the room right now,” Stevie says irritably.

David rolls his eyes. “Fine, out loud it is then. When Sebastien and I were dating in college he, um…ended up getting a hold of some pretty unflattering pictures of me and used them for his final art exam in first year. They were all over the internet and the tabloids and I couldn’t take it, so…I dropped out. Of college.”

“I don’t wanna rub salt in the wound, but _why_ did you still go to New York with him after that?” Stevie says.

“Okay, if you can remember seeing me in the news back then, you’ll also remember that I had a severely low amount of self-respect.”

Patrick sighs heavily. “I’m so sorry. I... God, I wish things would go back to normal. I wish I was never able to hear things. I wish –”

Stevie interrupts him with a scoff. “You can’t wish your life away, Patrick. It’s been, what, two months? And you already have your dream job because of this thing. You’re doing something with your life, like you always wanted to.”

_(It got you a bit of D on the side, too.)_

Patrick wants to wax lyrical for hours about how David is so much more than a bit of D, but he’s too tired. And that reminds him, it’s about time to kick Stevie out, anyway.

“You know what? You’re right,” he finishes, as a conclusion. “I can’t mope around and stew in the mess of it all. I’ve got all this information, all this evidence. I’m going to do something about it.”

“You’re gonna try to take Sebastien down?” Stevie says, sounding equal parts impressed and amused.

“Damn right I am.”

David squeezes his shoulder. _(That’s my boy.)_

Patrick blushes under the ministration, and Stevie puts the pieces together and makes a gagging sound.

“Right, something tells me I don’t want to stick around for very much longer. I need to go talk my girlfriend out of voting for that snake.”

They bid her goodnight and spend the rest of the night getting each other out of their heads, trying very hard not to think about anything other than the here and now.

The next morning, however, things aren’t so simple.

“David, we really need to call your mom.”

_(Fuck.)_

David stares at Patrick from over his coffee. “Um. Why – why is that?”

“Because she has an insane amount of evidence against Sebastien and I think we’d really benefit from talking to her?” Patrick offers.

David groans and puts his chin on his hand.

_(You know how I feel about her.)_

“Can you use your words, please?”

The firmness of Patrick’s tone makes David sit up. He’d said something that wasn’t so different about ten hours ago in bed. Scratch that, it was exactly the same.

“Okay,” David says, trying – but also not trying at all – to hide the smirk on his face. “Fine. We can call her, but I’m still not happy about it.”

“I’ll make it up to you. Promise.”

“Oh, will you now?”

_(Does it include you doing what you did last night where you used my thoughts against me to not let me come?)_

Patrick smirks. “Okay, you can’t distract me by talking about last night anymore. I’m calling your mom now.”

Instead of conversing over the phone like Patrick expected, Moira shifts into some sort of action mode as soon as Patrick tells her the rough skeleton of his plan, telling him that she was already on her way to meet them. As soon as Moira turns up at David’s apartment, her face set and her eyes full of regret and love for her son, Patrick is left with no doubt that she’s going to use this little mission to make amends with David once and for all.

 _(If she says a single syllable out of line, to either of us, I’m kicking her out),_ David thinks, and Patrick can hear the warning in his mind clearly. He gives David a tiny nod.

Moira sweeps into the room, a file propped up against her hip.

“First of all, Patrick, I want to quell any lingering suspicions you might have that I was doing anything at all untoward by causing the power cut and slinking into Ronnie’s office like some petty thief,” Moira says.

Patrick tries not to snort. By very nature it was untoward, but he wasn’t going to tell Moira that.

“This,” she continues, pulling out a sheet of paper from the file, “is what I was attempting to procure. If you read it closer than you did the other day, you’ll see that it’s a contract drawn up between Sebastien and Elmdale County News – likely forced by him – to keep any of his past dealings out of the public eye in any which way possible. I was at a meeting of his and someone mentioned it. That was the first of many kernels of suspicion I began to collect about him.”

“Speaking of evidence, I still have no idea how we’re going to do anything with the evidence we have,” Patrick says. “I mean, ECN isn’t going to run anything bad about Sebastien any time soon.”

“In these last few yards of the election, this is where David comes in,” Moira says, turning to her son. “You have another debate with Sebastien coming up, do you not?”

David and Moira look at each other, and for the first time, it looks like they’re seeing eye to eye.

“You want me to use the evidence against him in the debate?” David says, his eyes hopeful.

“Once we can figure out what happened with your office, I think we’ll be good to go,” Patrick interjects.

“I'll need a while to work out how I’m going to slip all this into my arguments, but it’s an idea,” David says.

_(Are you not worried, Patrick? What with Sebastien blackmailing you?)_

Oh.

“Ahem, Mrs Rose, there’s another…conflict of interest in play here,” Patrick says nervously. “He kind of has me under his thumb at the moment. Yesterday, Sebastien blackmailed me into only reporting good on him for the rest of the election. He said if I didn’t then he’d – well. Um.”

Moira looks at the two cups of coffee on the table and the rumpled cushions on the chair, then raises an eyebrow. “If this has anything to do with your less-than-conspicuous attachment to each other, then I wouldn’t fear,” she says in a low tone. “Once the election is over, the threat will simply be another of Sebastien’s vacuous phrases.”

“But what about my job?”

“Oh, whatever would we do without our jobs,” Moira says dryly. “That is exactly how he _wants_ you to think. Do not let him get under your skin. I’m sure David here could teach you a thing or two about that. He has dealt with Sebastien’s sniping with remarkable strength and grace for a much longer time than anyone deserves to.”

Patrick thought he heard David sigh with relief in his head.

_(If you weren’t here, Patrick, I think I might cry.)_

He lets them have their moment, smiling gently at each other, before Patrick brings them back to the surface by clapping his hands together.

“Right,” Patrick says. “What now?”

****

Patrick had a list that felt a mile long in his hands as he, Moira and David piled into Moira’s car and began to drive.

  * Oak Hills – thing that Canyon mentioned
  * David’s office being trashed
  * David’s ratings – (suspiciously) low?
  * Look for inconsistencies in finances



He was looking over their points of interest as they drove, while Moira explained everything she’d found out in the last couple of days. It was all expected. There were some seriously shady people who had a lot to gain from a Governor Raine, and almost everything he was doing behind the scenes was to change the structure of the county’s policies for personal gain. It made Patrick’s blood boil to hear it all coming out, and was getting more and more antsy to bring everything to the surface.

“There’s not much more to Oasis Unlimited other than it’s a front for these flora-destroying oil businesses,” Moira explains. “As for Oak Hills, I do believe it’s a farm that’s being targeted, much like the waterpark of last month. Sebastien has plans to lay a pipeline, apparently.”

When they arrive at Oak Hills, their first stop, they get out and are immediately accosted by a lanky man with a ratty-looking haircut, munching on what looks like a whole block of cheese.

“No, no reporters here,” he says, waving them away.

“You are the owner of this rustic little establishment, yes?” Moira inquires. Her heels are cutting into the soil, and Patrick tries not to laugh as she totters about like a ragdoll.

“Yep. If you’re looking for an ass to kiss around here, it’s mine,” he barks, sticking out a hand that no one takes. “Roland Schitt.”

 _(At the start of my campaign, this was still one of the biggest producers of food in the county,)_ David thinks. _(Now the place is barely scraping business.)_

“I already told the fellas at Oasis I wasn’t interested in anymore hush money. I need full-blown soil remediation here,” Roland says.

“We’re not with Oasis, Mr. Schitt, we’re reporters from the city,” Patrick says. “We want to work on a story about what’s happening to you.”

He narrows his eyes at Patrick. “Reporters, huh. I saw you on the news last night, cozying up to Sebastien Raine. Well, he’s well and truly screwed me over in the past few weeks, how’s that for a story?”

Then he looks at David, and his expression changes.

“Wait, you’re the other guy, right? Dave Rose?”

David grimaces. “We’re not doing Dave, but yes.”

Roland looks between them all thoughtfully, then nods them inside.

They speed through the interview with Roland, collecting as much information as they can about the way he’s being bribed and how he just wants his farm back without the risk of oil ruining everything. After that it’s back on the road, with a bit of driving in circles for their next point of contact. Then suddenly, a thought occurs to Patrick.

“Tywla,” he says aloud.

David frowns at him. “What about her?”

“She is – well, the last time I checked, she _was_ a Sebastien supporter. She volunteers at all these wildlife reservations and is obsessed with the scenery around here, so why on earth would she want to vote for him?”

 _(I have another hunch,)_ Moira thinks. She turns the car around to make the way back to Elmdale. Patrick pulls out his phone and sends her a text inviting her to lunch.

“I’ll go alone,” Patrick says, “I don’t want her to feel hounded.”

Half an hour later they’ve reached Elmdale, where Twyla is waiting for Patrick at the little bistro next to the news station. Her face is calm, but her thoughts have a troubled tinge to them that make Patrick perk up a little.

_(I think I know what this is going to be about.)_

With every minute that passes, Twyla’s expression gets more and more distressed until she finally blurts out, “I know who trashed David’s office.”

_(Ugh, he’s going to hate me now. He’s probably going to lay into me. Deep breaths, Twyla.)_

Instead of laying into her, Patrick puts another sugar into her coffee and pushes it towards her. Gently, he places his hand over hers.

“Why don’t you go from the beginning, Twyla?” he prompts.

And she does. Tywla sits there and tells Patrick all about the work that they thought Sebastien was doing for the local area, and all the times he’d easily complied when people requested that he focus on the things that mattered to them. He threw things their way, made empty promises, deflected blame, all while convincing the people on his side that it was actually David fucking everything up behind the scenes. His ratings dropped. Sebastien actually managed to wire his way into David’s funds and make a few donations to the wrong people, using the receipts as evidence that he was up to no good. That explained the weird finance issue that David had thought about while in the office the other day, and it also explained the office itself. Some Environmental Studies students at Elmdale College had got too ahead of themselves in the thrill of being able to vote, being able to make a difference, and thought that destruction of property was the best (and probably coolest) way to do it. Patrick is still pissed beyond belief, but he’s relieved. At least there’s nothing more to deal with on that end than a couple of hormonal teenagers.

Overall, it actually sounded a lot like Sebastien’s personal relationship with David. Manipulative, scheming and full of nothing but self-serving malice.

“Twyla, you have nothing to worry about,” Patrick assures her, as he listens to her thoughts cloud over with fear about what’s going to happen to her if someone finds out she told. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I can’t say David will be 100% happy that you were keeping all of this in, but we understand why you did it.”

Twyla relaxes. “Thanks. I know I should have done better, but it feels good to finally have all that out of my system! I feel like I can go back to normal now.”

Patrick smiles. He can empathise…hypothetically. It must be nice.

Once lunch is over, he texts David the updates and heads into the studio for his shift, where Ronnie is immediately on his tail.

“Brewer! Just the person I wanted to see. I need a word with you in my office, now.”

Oh, okay. Patrick tunes into her thoughts. Nothing urgent there. He was getting good at discerning Ronnie’s different moods, and she was getting better at being polite to him, so everyone wins here, really.

He sits down, putting his brown satchel on the floor by his feet.

“As you know, the final Rose-Raine debate is happening next week, and pretty much the entire county is gonna be tuned in,” she says. “I had Stevie down as a moderator, but she’s come to me this morning claiming she knows she’s gonna be sick then, and kept hinting that you should step in instead. I wouldn’t have listened, but I honestly thought she was gonna pay me, she was begging that hard. So…you know what I’m about to ask next.”

“Wha – you’re asking me to moderate their debate?”

“Mhm.”

Patrick’s brain goes offline for a moment. The drama would be insatiable, which is probably mostly why Ronnie agreed, but as well as that…all the evidence. Everything they had against Sebastien both on paper and through word of mouth. It could all come crashing down for him here. This could be it.

“Yes,” Patrick says immediately. “I’ll do it. I’ll absolutely do it.”

“No need to bite my hand off, kid. But I’m glad. I would’ve hated to sit in front of those two with their fangs out. I’m confident you can deal with it a bit better.”

Made frantic by the news (and by the first real compliment Ronnie had ever given him), Patrick rushes out of the room and barrels down the stairs, slowing as he rounds the corner to Stevie’s computer.

“Just how much bastard juice did you drink for breakfast this morning, Stevie Budd?”

She’s already cackling. “So you said yes? Yes!” Stevie pumps a fist in the air and leans back in her seat. “You can thank me later. Or now. Or tonight, with shots. I’m easy either way.”

“This is gonna take a lot more planning than just me sitting there and moderating, but I’m sure we can work something out. There’s a chance the crew might just switch off the live if I start acting up, so we’ll need to be prepared.”

“Got it. I’ll let a few people in on it. But this is going to be a walk in the park with your whole thought thing. You can steer the questions any which way you like! Catch him off guard, make him stumble for once.”

“Perfect.”

Patrick is almost giddy now. He bounds through the rest of his day with a skip in his step, reading the news so enthusiastically that he sees his own name accompanied by several memes doing the rounds between the people in Elmdale County on Twitter that night.

David is there to pick him up at 8pm, and since Ray is out of town they go back to his apartment and make lemon and seafood pasta in the warm, dim lights of Patrick’s kitchen, feeling settled and sorted for the first time in weeks.

As Patrick is watching over the pot of boiling spaghetti, stirring it gently, David knocks him lightly on the arm.

“Hey. I just want to say thank you for everything you’ve done today, especially with my mom. I was actually starting to lose hope that I’d ever make peace with her again in my adult life, so…thanks.”

Patrick smiles and turns around on the counter, pulling David close with his arms around his neck.

“It wasn’t all me, you know. You’ve done so much these past few weeks as well. Been so brave. And I’m so proud of you.”

Patrick leans in for a kiss, and relishes in the feeling of David’s solid, steady warmth pressed against him, his soft lips and tongue making gentle entrance as they press up further against the counter. Suddenly, Patrick pulls away forcefully, and David whines.

“Hey! What was that for?”

“If I’ve timed this meal perfectly, then the first timer should be going off in three, two, one –”

And sure enough, it does. David chuckles as he watches Patrick busy himself with the meal again, once again applying as much math as he can to the world’s least mathematical things. He sees David lift up the steamer with all the seafood in and pluck out a shrimp, so he crosses the kitchen in double time and smacks it out of his hand.

“No! You have to let me do this, otherwise in my eyes the entire evening will be ruined,” he says, only half-joking.

David laughs, pouring two glasses of wine before he heads out to the dinner table. “I wouldn’t sabotage your culinary endeavors intentionally. I know you a little better than to do that.”

And after that, it’s only once the meal is eaten, cleared away, then Patrick has taken his time with David until he’s a sobbing, shaking mess in the pillows, and they’re safely tucked into bed that Patrick realizes just how clear his head feels.

****

The feeling doesn’t stop. For a while, Patrick chalks it up to the indescribable happiness he gets from being with David (his _boyfriend,_ which was a word they said for the first time the other day and left Patrick feeling giddy for hours), but even when David’s not around he still feels the same, weird way.

The only comparable thing that comes to mind is the time that his mom banned all sugar in the house when he was sixteen, and he didn’t realize how much of it he’d been eating until he stopped. After a few withdrawal headaches, he suddenly felt clearer, lighter and more energetic. That’s sort of how he feels now. As though he was walking around with a bowling ball for a head, and he’s suddenly swapped it out for a balloon.

“Stevie…” Patrick says cautiously, “Can you come over here, please?”

Stevie looks over from where she stands, hanging up some lights in the town hall in preparation for the debate in a few days’ time, and frowns. “What’s with that tone of voice?”

“I’m freaking out.”

Stevie jogs over to him. “Okay, listen. Everything is going to be fine. We still have a few days to prepare, and –”

“No, it’s not that. I need…I need you to think something.”

 _“Think_ something?” A second later, Stevie’s face changes. “Oh my God. Do you think you’ve – okay, I’m thinking something. I’m gonna think something really gross and awful, and I better see you frown or go _ew_ when I do it.”

...

Blank.

Nothing.

Nada.

Out of town.

Patrick looks at her for a second, then shakes his head slowly.

“…Nope. Nothing at all.”

Stevie’s eyes nearly pop out of her head. “Fuck.”

Patrick puts his hands to his temples, just like he had when he’d gained these stupid powers. The powers that had given him everything in the past few weeks, and nearly taken as much away. The powers he was going to rely on in a couple of days to see him through the debate.

Fuck indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come yell at me on [Tumblr](https://fairmanor.tumblr.com/), if you so desire.


	10. Think Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Aaaaand we're done!! I'm so glad you've all enjoyed this fic. It's been really fun!!!

“Stevie. Stevie. Stevie.”

“What?” Stevie says impatiently, unlocking the door to her apartment.

“What are you thinking about?”

Stevie rolls her eyes. “Currently, the easiest way to dispose of your body if you ask me that again.”

Patrick whines like a child, and if Stevie hadn’t just lowered him gently to her couch then he would have definitely flung himself onto it and buried his head under the cushions.

It’s been two days since Patrick woke up to find that the only interesting thing about him - well, in his opinion - was gone, and ever since then Stevie has had to talk him off of every ledge going and physically guide him down the street since he’s been in that much of a trance.

Was it always this…quiet?

Stevie kneels down to his level, and Patrick doesn’t overlook the sympathy in her eyes as she stares at him.

“Listen, I know this has got to suck. Like, _hard_. Especially with the debate going on soon.”

“Don’t remind me,” Patrick groans, and pushes his face into the seat. Stevie forces it out again.

“If I know you half as well as I think I do, I know you’ll be beating yourself up right about now. But you are _more_ than those powers! You always were, okay?”

Patrick forces up something resembling a smile and pushes himself up from the seat for Stevie’s sake.

“We’ll work something out, I know we will,” she assures him. “Cobble together a ragtag team. Do things the old fashioned way.”

Patrick sighs heavily, and with that sigh he resigns himself fully to what’s going on. “I know,” he says. “With perspective it kind of feels like someone is telling me to send an email without a computer. But I guess I survived thirty years without knowing what people are thinking. What are sixty more, right?”

“How did it even happen, anyway?” Stevie asks, punching the number of the pizza place down the road into her phone. “You just woke up and they were…gone?”

Patrick shrugs. “I think so. David was over at mine the night before and everything was going fine, and they just…went.”

“They just went.” Stevie looks unconvinced. “I know neither of us can know how this works, but there must be more to it than that.”

Patrick tries to remember what he and David had been talking about. He would have texted David, to update him on everything that had happened, but all of David's texts have been automated replies in the past couple of days. What with the election getting nearer, David hasn’t had much time to talk and the last thing Patrick wants to do is add another thing onto his plate. He knows him a little better than that.

Wait.

Hold up.

He knows him a little better than that.

_I know you a little better than that._

David had said that to him in between other mindless chatter and a half-hearted argument about seafood. The kitchen was warm, David’s laugh was bright and beautiful, and it was a long time since Patrick had truly felt that happy. And David had looked at him, and told him that he _knew_ him.

“Oh my God. Stevie, I think I know why they went.”

He tells her the full story, and Patrick swears he sees her face melt into some kind of soft, endearing thing before she covers it up with disgust.

“Patrick, that is the sappiest shit I’ve ever heard. You and David truly are disgusting.”

But she’s smiling anyway, and Patrick smiles too.

“Does he make you happy?” Stevie says.

Patrick nods. “More than I’ve been in a long time.”

He thinks back to the beginning of the year, and how unsatisfied he’d been. With his job, with his house, with his co-workers – hell, his entire life here had felt so wrong, until those powers got him a promotion, gave David to him, brought him the best friends he could have asked for. The least he could do was honor them by showing off the kind of person he’d become.

When their pizza arrives, Patrick sits up and pushes himself into action mode.

“Alright, Stevie. How are we gonna do this?”

****

As a general rule, Patrick hated elections. He could always see right through the candidates and he’d never really been satisfied with anyone he’d voted for. Despite the fact that he was frequently being satisfied _by_ one of the candidates, this time around it felt different. To be a part of something bigger than yourself, making a difference. Patrick can see the appeal when he actually has something to do with it.

The afternoon before the final debate, four days before the election itself, Patrick, Stevie, Twyla, Ted and Alexis had locked themselves in one of the breakrooms at the news station to go over their final plan. And thankfully, the ragtag team Stevie was talking about turn out to be much more tag than rag.

“Just so we’re completely clear on this, I think we should all take it in turns to talk about what we’re each going to be doing tonight. Obviously I’ll be moderating, which still makes me want to throw up, but I have faith in all of you guys. Ted?”

“I’ll be running interference on the screen behind the curtain,” Ted says. “All of Sebastien’s dodgy contracts and finances will run up on the screen at home for everyone to see.”

Twyla jumps off of Ted’s point to recite her own contribution. “Then I’ll fiddle with the camera and make it look like I can't get rid of the images on the screen!”

“And I’ll be scurrying around the crew and audience, telling everyone that it’s so not a big deal,” Alexis finishes, flipping her hair in a preview of the twinkling, listen-to-me-I’m-the-studio-manager attitude she’ll employ later that night.

Stevie pipes up last. “And I’ll be taking the microphone to people in the audience – namely, Roland Schitt, whose farm got screwed over by Sebastien.”

Patrick breathes out deeply, a weight falling from his shoulders. He has a solid team that know exactly what they’re about, and he couldn’t be more grateful.

A couple of hours later, Patrick is sitting in his dressing room, covertly outlining the game plan for the debate that he can keep in his pocket and refer to in real time.

Kicking Sebastien’s Ass 101

  * Me at the mic
  * Stevie with audience
  * Ted doing the thing in the back
  * Twyla doing her thing
  * Alexis doing her thing



He reads it back, then crumples it up. It looks dumb. He flexes and unflexes his hands, sighing irritably, when a soft knock at his door stuns him out of his anxiety stew.

“Yes?” He calls, a little too forcefully. “Sorry. I’m just – I’ll be a minute.”

“Does this door unlock or something?”

The doorknob starts to rattle. After recognizing the voice immediately, Patrick feels a wave of panic about…well, _everything_ start to rear up in his gut after the customary giddiness subsides. Oh God, what if he accidentally tells David about his loss of powers? Then what if David freaks out and backs out of the whole plan? What if Sebastien comes prepared –

_Calm down, Patrick. Take this one step at a time._

“Yes, the door does unlock,” Patrick says to David, who is –

Oh.

_Oh._

Of all the outrageous live TV outfits Patrick has seen David wearing over the past couple of months, he’s never looked quite like this.

His hair is unteased and unstyled, resting in those soft curls that had made Patrick trip over his tongue more than once on their first date at the restaurant. Rather than any metallic or thick brocade dinner jacket, David is wearing nothing fancier than a soft, crisp white shirt, the top few buttons undone and leaving so little to the imagination that Patrick feels a twinge of possessiveness on his own behalf. His black pants are perfectly tailored and match the black jacket he has slung over his shoulder. Patrick thinks he must have raked his eyes down David’s body three whole times before David laughs, letting himself into the room.

“I’m assuming you like what you see?”

Patrick answers that one by pulling David in for a fierce, desperate kiss, slamming the door closed behind them with a loud thump. Immediately, all his panic melts away. David kisses back for a few seconds before protesting, pulling away from the kiss with a laugh.

“Stop, it took me an hour to get the angle of my collar just right!”

“An hour, huh? There’s a lot I could do to that collar _in_ an hour.” Patrick lowers his mouth to David’s neck and bites down hard, only relenting when David squeals and pushes him off.

“You are _not_ giving me a hickey right before we go on air live, mister.”

Patrick pouts. “A half-hickey, then?”

“Absolutely not. Why aren’t you dressed, anyway?”

Patrick looks at the suit Alexis dropped off for him hanging on the rack, sheathed in plastic. Without even wearing it, he already knows it’s definitely the second sexiest thing that Patrick has ever had within a five-meter radius of his body.

David looks at it too, his eyes flashing bright and playful. “Now, that I _do_ want to see you in.”

“Ugh, fine. I just…” Patrick sighs, nervousness bubbling up in his chest. “When I put this on, everything moves into action mode. I have to go out there and _do_ the thing.”

He tugs the suit off the rack and looks it over. It’s a deep, satiny shade of rouge, the lapels cornered off with gold zigzagged plating, with a golden leaf-shaped belt to match. He’ll look like an SPQR flag come to life.

“This is…kind of not me, but it also kind of is?”

“Whatever it is, I want to get you into it now,” David purrs, eliciting a shiver up Patrick’s spine.

And he does just that. David unbuttons Patrick’s plain navy suit slowly and hangs it up on the rack, planting soft kisses up and down his body as he goes, but only once he’s got Patrick into the suit and tightened the last button does he immediately undo the pants again and slip his hand down Patrick’s boxers, cupping a hand around his hardening cock.

“You’re all worked up, aren’t you?” David murmurs into his ear, and Patrick sighs. “I can tell. You’ve been so busy this week. Do you know how proud I am of you?”

David starts to punctuate his words with a slow, languid pull of his hand, pressing Patrick up against the desk, making him feel utterly debauched in his deep red blazer and the dusting of makeup that Alexis insisted he wear. Well, it was less of a dusting, and more of a “Patrick, I think you’ll look _amazing_ in winged eyeliner tonight.” It took him about twenty seconds to comply. It took another ten seconds for Alexis to convince him to round off the look with some sparkling gold eyeshadow that feels very different, but so very _right_.

“Look at you. Look how _gorgeous_ you are in your makeup and your gold lightning suit. My little star.” And _oh_ , Patrick hadn’t yet discovered he had a praise kink, but somehow finding it out less than an hour before he’s due to go live on TV is really doing it for him. So maybe he has a bit of a voyeurism thing as well. Oh God.

Patrick tries to fumble with David’s belt, but David guides his hand away gently. “No, baby, this is all about you. You need to settle down before your big night.”

“It’s – _God, David_ – it’s your big night too,” Patrick manages to choke out, before the pleasure peaks and he comes into David’s hand, almost having to look away as David licks himself clean in case he comes again straight away.

David shakes his head. “Mm-mm. This is all on you. You’re the one who’s gonna make everything right.” David cups Patrick’s face with his other hand, looking at him adoringly. “I’m so proud of you,” he says again, and this time Patrick wants to cry. He hasn’t even had a chance to tell David about his powers yet, but something tells him he still doesn’t need to. David knows him, and he knows David, and if what was going on wasn’t so important then Patrick might have found a certain L-word slipping off his tongue there and then.

“What if we – what if _I –_ mess everything up?” Patrick says quietly. David shakes his head, pulling away briefly to wash his hand and do up Patrick’s suit properly before bringing him back in for a warm, firm hug.

“Then I will be here, and we’ll get through it together. Okay?”

And God, Patrick really does love him.

He nods. “Okay.”

With a final joke about letting off steam before going on stage and a kiss to each other’s foreheads, David leaves and Patrick clips himself up to his microphone. He takes one last look in the mirror before he goes.

Damn, that eyeshadow looks good.

****

Patrick enters the auditorium and circulates the crowd a few times, pretending to mingle while he locates the team to make sure they’re all in position.

“Hey, kid. You ready?” Ronnie says, clapping Patrick on the shoulder. She looks him up and down with a look of impress. “Damn, you _look_ ready!”

Patrick smiles. What had previously been a staunch rivalry with his boss has recently turned into something resembling mutual respect and even a few jokes here and there. That's another thing he has to thank that damn lightning for.

“I think I’m ready. How about you?”

“Ah, what can I say – oh, Twyla’s signalling. We’re about to go live! Knock ‘em dead, Brewer!”

Patrick bids the higher-ups of the office goodbye and settles in his place at the moderator’s table. Twyla’s fingers come up in a five…

Four…

Three…

Two…

One…

The light goes red.

“Good evening, Elmdale. And thanks so much to everybody in the audience for joining us tonight. I’m Patrick Brewer, coming to you live at ECN with our final gubernatorial debate.”

David and Sebastien finish settling into their places and nod at Patrick in turn.

“As is custom, we’ll start with the questions directed at both of our candidates before focusing on their individual policies.” Patrick shuffles his cue cards and brings the first one up to the surface. “Candidates, how do you plan to address the failing crops at Oak Hills, our county’s biggest produce provider? The environmental devastation of that area is certainly an issue relevant to whoever becomes governor of this county.”

Immediately, Sebastien jumps in. “Of course. If elected, I will invariably do my part to properly finance all areas of this county.”

Step one, go. Patrick turns towards Sebastien where he sits, definitely not angling himself towards the camera to show off his outfit better at the same time. Definitely not.

“In my research on the area, Mr. Raine, I learned that you’ve already been financing the area. Under the table. Wouldn’t it be more effective to launch a full-scale investigation and determine the cause of the ruin?”

Patrick can see the question falling like lead over Sebastien’s face. He stutters over some pathetic excuses about soil “often being inherently bad, much like the way some outliers plague the fringes of humanity”. He hears the tiniest click from the screen behind the curtain, and fights hard to suppress a grin as Ted floods the news screen with an assessment of the soil at Roland’s farm, where Sebastien had been carrying out oil pipeline tests and bribing Roland to keep hushed about it.

“We actually analyzed samples of it, as you can see here, and found the ground to be poisoned with significant amounts of oil,” Patrick says, wishing more than ever that he could hear Sebastien’s thoughts right now.

David cuts in before Sebastien can trip his way through another vague argument. “It’s immediately obvious to me that we need to assess and rectify this public health and environmental crisis,” he says smoothly. “A poisoned supply of produce – and, subsequently, a poisoned citizenry – is unacceptable and counterproductive to wellbeing and welfare.”

The audience applauds.

“That being said, I must admit that these issues weren’t made plain to me at the start of my campaign,” David says, looking confused in a way that Patrick knows he’s putting on for the sake of furthering their onslaught towards Sebastien. “The first thing I’d like to do as governor is work out why that is, and why the media has been so quiet about some of the most pressing issues in our local area.”

“I – I do believe we’re getting off topic here,” Sebastien says, flustered. “We’re discussing the county, not the media, _David.”_

The file taken from Ronnie’s office by Moira fills the screen and the audience breaks out in murmurs as they read over the contract that meant Sebastien has essentially had Elmdale County News in a chokehold for the past few months.

“I’m not surprised that you don’t want us discussing the media, Mr. Raine. It seems like you don’t want ECN discussing a lot of things.”

“I –”

“Before we move on to our directed questions, candidates, I have one more,” Patrick interrupts, knowing that the directed questions might not even happen if all goes to plan. “Due to the risk of compromised integrities, it’s vital to our community that our leaders have no personal stake in private companies.”

David shoots Patrick a look that’s much more flirty than affronted. “Well, Mr. Brewer, I’m personally shocked that you’d even have to ask. If elected governor, I’d work purely in the public sector.”

Sebastien is halfway through some drivel about supporting longtime friends in the private sector when Patrick cuts him off again.

“And you, Sebastien? Would you be willing to prove your loyalty to the community by stepping down from your silent partnership with…” he looks at his notes, “Oasis Unlimited?”

“He’s a _partner_ there?” A member of the audience blurts out. Oh, this is too good.

“You know what? I think some questions and opinions from our audience members would be a good idea at this point. Stevie, do you want to…?”

Stevie hurries to the middle of the audience, carrying her microphone and inching towards Roland. He already has his hand up, as do many shocked and outraged people.

“Ahem, Roland Schitt, of Oak Hills farm here,” he says. “I wanna know when I’m gonna get my dues for the amount of times this slimeball and his little team from Oasis have broken my back over the past couple of months!”

Sebastien composes himself. “It’s good to see you again, Mr. Schitt. I should think that the down payments we made to you and your farm should be more than enough to –”

“That was hush money!” Roland shouts, raising from his seat.

The room is half in chaos now. The police who were acting as security on the doors are edging towards the scene, intrigued, their heads bent together and whispering. David is looking more relaxed than Patrick has ever seen him. Patrick is _feeling_ more relaxed than he ever has in his life, as well. The audience start to break out in hives of heckling and accusations, and words like “liar” and “snake” are spat out across the auditorium in Sebastien’s direction.

“Mr. Brewer, with all due respect, this is turning into a glorified witch hunt,” Sebastien says. “I’d like to make mention that those are private files you’re showing, and my legal team will be contacting you.”

“Oh, great! I look forward to hearing from them. I hope they’re not too swamped with indictments and subpoenas to reach out to me.”

And in the best moment of Patrick’s life thus far, the entire audience “oohs”. No one’s ever “oohed” at one of his burns before. It’s pretty good.

Patrick turns to David, who nods him on with the tiniest smile. Someone in the studio has called in backup, and both lawyers and policemen are entering the room. Turning to the camera in full, Patrick goes in for the kill.

“As we now know, Elmdale, this election has been a turbulent one for many reasons, but none that aren’t deeply rooted in the irresponsible greed and manipulation of Sebastien Raine, whose corrupt and illegal exploits have managed to jeopardize the livelihoods of thousands of people and their careers in this county before he’s even been sworn into office. I may lose my job for going so off-script, but saving my own tarnished reputation isn’t worth the cost of silence. Ladies and gentlemen, I hope you’ll take into consideration the vested interests of your political candidates this election and how they might be a detriment to your own welfare. I’m Patrick Brewer, and his has been ECN live at nine. Thanks _so_ much for tuning in. Good evening.”

And then.

He.

Drops.

The.

Mic.

The auditorium is in shambles. The people who aren’t screaming at Sebastien are applauding, the people who aren’t applauding are frozen in their seats, shocked. Very softly, Patrick hears the sound of a siren outside and the cops approach the stage, clasping Sebastien’s hands behind his back and reading his rights. Patrick watches in a daze, catching sight of his friend’s giddy faces dotted around the auditorium but finding himself without any coherence to go and speak to them. Ronnie is shouting something at him, and Patrick can tell it’s far more incredulous and impressed than angry, so he doesn’t bother to listen. He just lets the praise wash over him as he zeroes in on David’s face, who’s still stood behind his podium with his lips clamped together and his eyes sparkling.

“Sebastien Raine, you’re under arrest for bribery, racketeering, conspiracy, obstruction of justice…”

The list goes on and on, and finally Patrick is shaken out of his own head by the appearance of Twyla, Ted, Alexis and Stevie at his side, all clamoring and jabbering at once.

“I can’t believe it happened. You really did it!”

“You really, uh…you really leg- _al –_ I’m trying to think of one but I can’t –”

“Look at you go, button! You’d better keep that eyeliner on, it took everything up to a thousand.”

To complete the ranks, Moira approaches him from the right, patting his cheek with a proud look on her face as she does.

“Pat. I might have had my reservations about you once upon a time, but I know a lot better than to earn your ire.”

Patrick smiles at her, then lets her hang back to talk to her son as they all pile outside to see Sebastien getting shoved out the door. After a few delicious seconds of watching the cops push Sebastien’s shaggy head into the blaring police car, Patrick feels a pair of hands come to rest stealthily on his waist. He leans back and smiles as David’s hands snake further round his middle.

“Anyone else ready to wash this entire night off? Let’s get to a bar and celebrate!” Stevie says to the group as the car pulls off.

“Drinks are on Patrick,” David says loudly, tugging Patrick as close to him as possible.

“Hey!” he protests, wriggling free, but he still grabs onto David’s hand immediately as they make their way out of the parking lot. _Drinks on Patrick_ becomes a hearty chant that Patrick can’t control, so he decides to give in and lets the night take him wherever it wants to go.

****

_Six months later_

“Patrick. Patrick, get up.”

“Mmmn…”

“Ugh, what’s wrong with you? Are you _dead?”_

“I don’t think your adoring constituents would approve of you speculating my death, babe.”

“Oh, of course not. Especially since you’re so adored by the public now.”

Patrick turns over in bed, his hair sticking up at an angle, and David melts as the sun makes his boyfriend's skin and auburn hair glow. The light through their window is perfect on a good day. Moving to Schitt’s Creek is definitely the best decision he’s made all year.

He strokes a hand down Patrick’s cheek. “Come on! My mornings are boring without a little dose of _Open Mic With Patrick Brewer_ on the TV.”

“You get _Open Mic With Patrick Brewer_ every day of your life,” Patrick grumbles, but starts getting ready anyway. “Living with me is like your own personal talk show.”

“If you’re such a grump before work, why do you bother talking at all? You could just think things to shut me up.”

Patrick freezes mid-taking off his pyjamas. He turns around. “What did you just say?”

“You know, why don’t you just think stuff instead? I feel like you never mention that whole thing anymore.”

Patrick’s mouth drops open and his hands fly to cover it. “Oh my God, I never told you.”

“Told me what?”

“I lost that _ages_ ago! Way back in the elections!”

What.

“Oh my God. This – this whole time? This _whole_ time I thought you had them!”

“No!” Patrick’s laughing now, clapping a hand to his forehead.

“So you’re telling me –” David says, in between laughter, “that we’ve been having really silent sex for _no reason?”_

David tugs him back onto the bed and they collapse with laughter. For two of the most influential people in Elmdale County, they really are idiots.

Patrick sits up. “Okay, why don’t we try again, then? Try really hard. Think something, David. Seriously, anything.”

_(Um. I can’t think – I don’t know…)_

“Anything! Give me anything, here!”

_(I love you.)_

“Try again.”

_(I LOVE YOU!)_

“Nope, still nothing.”

“Whatever.”

“What was it?”

“Oh, nothing. You’ll hear it soon enough, anyway.”

⚡ **The End** ⚡

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Thanks so much for reading, I'd love to know what you thought!
> 
> \- Special thanks goes to my favourite game for the inspiration for this story. 
> 
> \- Come yell at me on [Tumblr](https://fairmanor.tumblr.com/), if you so desire.


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